t rrrtarg 


dttlj  illustratiutia 
bQ  3F.  3.  Arting 

SBCX)ND    EDITION 


(Clurago 

C.  JHcClurs  &  Co. 
1913 


Copyright 

A.  C.  McClurg  &  Co. 
1912 

Published  Jane,  1912 


JT.  ijall  Printing  Cnmpang 
ttbtrann 


all  ijmiii  linrturs  rhr  rijlntjf  re  and 
allg  to  onp  W|om  nnr?  31 


Unofficial 


WASHINGTON,  D.  C.,  October. 

S,  Miladi,  I  am  really  going,  and 
because  I  have  a  conscience  about 
keeping  a  promise  I  am  letting  you  know 
first  of  all.  Yesterday  morning  the  post 
man  placed  in  my  hands  a  long,  official- 
looking  envelope  on  the  face  of  which  I 
read: 


TNE  UNITED  STATES  CONSULATE 

ASUNCION.    PARAGUAY 
ARNOLD    HOLT  -        CONSUL 


Miss  Virginia  Leigh, 

1910  Connecticut  Avenue, 
Washington,  D.  C. 

[i] 


<Ef)C  (Unofficial  ^>ecrrtarp 


It  was  such  a  cold,  gray  morning.  The 
day  quite  matched  my  mood.  Summer 
was  loath  to  depart  this  year  although  it 
is  now  late  in  October.  But  yesterday 
the  wind  wailed  like  a  lost  soul  and  all 
day  long  the  rain  wept  against  the  window 
panes.  Perhaps  it  was  because  I  felt  that 
the  reading  of  the  letter  would  make  a 
great  change  in  my  life  that  I  stood  for 
a  long  time  holding  the  envelope  in  my 
hand,  not  daring  to  break  the  seal. 

My  thoughts  flew  back  to  just  such  a 
day  a  little  more  than  a  year  ago  and  to  a 
scene  I  shall  never  forget.  I  saw  once 
more  the  upstairs  room  in  the  dear  old 
house  in  K  Street  —  ah,  have  we  not  seen 
happy  days  in  that  house,  you  and  I  — 
where  two  men  who  had  loved  each  other 
from  boyhood  were  taking  leave  of  each 
other  forever.  One  was  soon  to  enter  the 
Eternal  Silence.  The  other  was  leaving 
on  the  morrow  to  assume  his  duties  as 
United  States  Consul  to  Paraguay. 

It  all  came  back  as  vividly  as  though  it 

[2] 


had  happened  only  yesterday.  I  could 
have  shrieked  aloud  that  day  as  I  looked 
first  into  my  dying  father's  face  and  then 
into  that  of  his  friend.  What  splendid 
creatures  men  are !  These  two  knew  that 
they  should  see  each  other  no  more,  yet 
they  looked  squarely  into  each  other's 
eyes  and  neither  wavered.  They  shook 
hands  and  said  good-bye  as  quietly  as 
though  they  were  to  meet  again  next 
morning. 

I  followed  Mr.  Holt  downstairs  into  the 
library  and  closed  the  door  behind  us. 
Then  his  composure  gave  way.  He  took 
me  in  his  arms  and  made  me  promise  that 
if  ever  I  were  ill  or  in  trouble  I  would  let 
him  know.  Well,  the  time  has  come,  and 
sooner  than  I  thought. 

I  need  not  rehearse  my  sorrows  before 
you,  Miladi.  You  know  them  well.  We 
can  not  understand  the  storms  which  strike 
us  and  work  such  revolutions  in  our  lives, 
but  after  a  while  we  become  philosophical 
about  most  things.  When  my  father  was 
[3] 


{Unofficial  Secretary 


no  more  I  said  to  myself,  "  It  is  well.  He 
is  no  longer  sick  and  suffering."  When  in 
a  few  weeks  my  mother  followed  him,  I 
forced  myself  to  say  again,  "  It  is  well. 
She  was  lonely  here  without  him."  When 
in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  nearly  all  my 
worldly  goods  melted  away,  I  said,  "  What 
matter?  I  have  youth,  health,  brains,  a 
heart,  two  hands.  I  will  not  be  con 
quered."  But  ah,  Miladi,  I  reckoned 
without  understanding. 

Tell  me,  am  I  not  the  same  woman  that 
I  was  when  my  father  was  an  influential 
man  in  Washington  and  wealth  and  social 
position  were  mine?  How  was  it,  then, 
that,  deprived  of  all  these  things,  I  be 
came  some  one  else? 

I  thought  of  Mr.  Holt  and  remembered 
my  promise.  I  wrote  and  told  him  all, 
no  —  not  quite  all.  The  shock,  the  pain, 
the  humiliation,  the  dead  illusions,  the 
shadowy  days,  the  long  and  sleepless 
nights  —  these  things  are  all  one's  own. 
Only  you,  Miladi,  only  you  and  I  know 


{Unofficial  £>ecretarp 


what  it  was  that  made  my  youth  to  vanish 
in  a  night.  I  am  only  two  and  twenty, 
but  I  shall  never  be  young  again. 

And  yet,  shall  I  say  I  am  sorry?  No. 
With  all  my  faults  I  am  not  a  hypo 
crite.  I  have  learned  to  the  last  letter 
that  friends  are  friends  just  so  long 
as  you  don't  need  them.  When  you 
do  they  take  wings  and  fly  away.  I 
learned  also  that  the  Thing  I  thought  was 
Love  —  the  Thing  which  outwardly  was 
strong  and  durable  was  inwardly  so  frail 
and  fragile  that  I  dare  not  lean  upon  it 
lest  it  break  and  pierce  me.  I  drank  the 
chalice  of  bitterness  to  the  dregs.  I 
learned  the  meaning  of  the  words  loath 
ing,  scorn,  disgust,  despair,  in  all  their 
fulness.  Utter  disillusion  was  mine.  I 
shudder  when  I  look  back  upon  it  all.  I 
regret  that  it  had  to  be,  but  no,  I  will  not 
say  I  am  sorry.  It  is  well  to  have  learned 
the  lesson  and  to  have  learned  it  well  and 
in  time,  but  when  I  had  done  so,  I  found 
myself  like  a  ship  that  has  lost  its  rudder 
[5] 


Unofficial 


and  is  drifting  aimlessly  out  to  sea.  What 
was  it,  Miladi,  —  the  Thing  I  thought  was 
Love?  Only  a  cheap  and  shoddy  imita 
tion  of  the  real  thing. 

I  think  there  is  nothing  in  all  the  uni 
verse  quite  so  dead  as  a  lost  confidence. 
Every  other  feeling,  every  other  sentiment 
and  passion  in  life  can  be  rekindled.  Cour 
age,  long  lost,  is  found  again.  Hope  re 
vives.  Respect,  even  self-respect,  long 
vanished,  oft  returns.  Anger,  hatred, 
envy,  jealousy,  long-hidden,  at  a  touch 
burst  forth  anew,  and  Love  —  shall  it  be 
different  from  the  rest?  No.  It  is  only 
the  lost  confidence  that  knows  no  re 
awakening.  The  Man  of  Sorrows  was  not 
speaking  of  a  dead  faith  when  He  said, 
"  I  am  the  Resurrection  and  the  Life." 

Ah,  well.  Pontius  Pilate  washed  his 
hands  after  he  had  sent  Christ  forth  to  be 
crucified.  In  like  manner  have  all  the  so- 
called  friends,  false,  evasive,  insin 
cere,  of  my  fair-weather  days  washed  their 
hands  of  me.  And,  Miladi,  if  I  were  a 
[6] 


fflnoffttfal  &ectetarp 


law-maker,  I  would  make  insincerity  the 
one  crime  punishable  by  death  —  the  only 
grounds  upon  which  one  might  obtain 
divorce. 

Yesterday  the  answer  to  my  letter  came. 
For  once  I  was  glad  you  were  away  from 
Washington,  for  I  could  hear  in  fancy  all 
the  arguments  you  would  put  forth  against 
my  going.  Have  I  not  been  the  victim  of 
your  persuasive  eloquence  more  than  once? 
I  took  time  by  the  forelock.  Before  night 
fall  my  reply  was  in  the  mail  box.  So  now 
you  know  that  in  less  than  two  weeks  I  am 
leaving  for  South  America  to  be  private 
secretary  to  the  United  States  Consul  to 
Paraguay. 

How  strange  it  is  that  the  things  we  do 
under  protest  are  usually  the  things  that 
are  of  most  benefit  in  the  end.  How  I 
used  to  resent  the  fact  that  my  childhood 
was  different  from  that  of  the  other  chil 
dren.  My  father's  official  position  kept  us 
knocking  about  Europe  three-fourths  of  the 
time,  now  here,  now  there,  but  children 
[7] 


Unofficial 


so  easily  adapt  themselves  to  their  en 
vironment,  and  I  learned  to  speak  all 
the  languages  and  to  speak  them  well. 
Now  my  ability  to  do  so  is  my  greatest 
asset.  French,  of  course,  is  mine  by  in 
heritance.  I  know  German  well.  Italian 
I  like  best  of  all,  and  a  sorry  figure  I 
should  cut  in  South  America  if  I  did  not 
know  Spanish. 

After  all,  I  need  not  tell  you,  Miladi, 
that  the  real  reason  for  my  going  lies  in 
the  native  instinct  of  the  human  soul.  The 
animal,  wounded  unto  death,  seeks  only  a 
place  in  which  to  hide  his  death  struggle 
from  the  gaze  of  his  pursuers.  I,  too, 
would  hide  my  pain  from  the  sight  of 
man,  only  would  that  my  hiding-place 
might  have  been  Paradise  instead  of 
Paraguay  ! 

Write  me  long,  long  letters,  Miladi. 
Believe  me,  it  adds  to  my  grief  to  put  so 
many  thousand  miles  between  you  and 
me.  What  a  tower  of  strength  you  are 
and  have  always  been  to  me,  my  dear  and 
[8] 


Unofficial  &ecretarp 


only  cousin!  The  things  you  did  for  me 
when  the  crash  came  were  such  as  one 
does  not  forget,  and  some  day  I  shall  pay 
you  back  a  thousandfold.  Perhaps  when 
I  am  in  that  far  country,  away  down 
yonder,  where  the  sun  slants  the  other 
way  —  where  the  summer  commences  with 
October  and  ends  with  March  and  the 
winter  begins  with  April  and  finishes  with 
September  —  when  I  am  far  from  sight 
and  sound  of  all  that  has  grieved  me  here, 
I,  too,  may  be  able  to  turn  life  around  and 
begin  again.  Au  revoir. 

ON  THE  B.  &  O. 

TJ  EIGHO  !  I  am  well  on  my  way.    In 
another  hour  or  so  I  shall  be  in  New 
York,  and  we  sail  to-morrow  afternoon. 

It  was  a  terrible  struggle,  Miladi.  To 
leave  all  that  one  has  known  and  held 
dear,  to  go  far  away  to  begin  life  over 
again  among  strangers  is  in  itself  a  thing 
to  break  one's  heart.  Only  the  knowledge 


<£fjc  Unofficial  £>ccretari> 


that  it  was  easier  to  go  than  to  stay  urged 
me  on. 

I  did  a  foolish  thing  last  night.  After 
my  trunks  were  packed  and  gone  to  the 
station  I  went  out  to  take  a  walk.  It  was 
just  after  sunset,  quite  shadowy  in  the 
streets,  but  the  afterglow  still  lingered  on 
the  tops  of  the  high  buildings  and  lit  up 
the  dome  of  the  Capitol.  I  was  seized 
with  a  desire  to  go  back  over  my  life,  as 
it  were,  step  by  step.  So  I  began  at  the 
beginning. 

I  went  first  to  the  little  house  on  I  Street 
where  I  was  born.  I  can  not  remember 
much  about  this  house  for  I  was  still  quite 
a  child  when  we  left  it,  but  two  things 
stand  out  distinctly  in  my  memory.  One 
is  the  rose  bush  which  clambered  over  the 
back  porch  where  my  mother  used  to  sit 
in  the  summer-time  when  we  were  children. 
There  was  always  a  touch  of  sadness  about 
my  mother.  I  think  she  was  not  quite 
happy  in  this  country  —  she  was  French, 
you  know  —  and  sometimes  now,  when  I 
[10] 


?Hnoffittal 


am  lying  awake  at  night  I  think  I  hear 
her  yet,  singing  an  old  French  song  she 
used  to  love.  It  ran  like  this: 

Les  amours  irreal'ises 

Sont  encore  les  seuls  fideles! 

Dear,  beautiful  mother! 

The  other  thing  I  remember  is  the 
nursery.  What  romps  we  children  used 
to  have  there  until  one  day  —  and  I  re 
member  that  day  very  well  —  something 
happened.  Father  came  home  suddenly 
at  noon-time  and  we  had  luncheon  to 
gether,  he  and  I,  all  by  ourselves.  I  did 
not  see  my  mother  nor  the  babies  that  day, 
and  in  the  afternoon  I  went  to  Grand 
mother's  for  a  visit.  I  stayed  only  a  week 
but  after  I  came  back  —  there  was  never 
anybody  in  the  nursery  but  me.  And  I 
remember  the  first  night  I  was  at  home 
again.  Something  wakened  me  from  my 
sleep.  I  stole  to  the  door  and  half  way 
down  the  stairs.  I  peeped  over  the  banis 
ters  and  there  I  saw  my  father  holding 

' 


^Inofficial  Secretary 


mother  close  in  his  arms  in  the  big  leather 
chair  in  the  library.  She  was  sobbing  as 
though  her  heart  would  break.  He,  with 
a  face  which  looked  as  if  it  had  turned  to 
stone,  was  softly  kissing  her  hair  and  talk 
ing  to  her  in  low  and  tender  tones  as  one 
would  talk  to  a  tired  child. 

Ah,  Mother-o'-Mine  !  All  the  things 
I  could  not  then  understand  are  quite  clear 
to  me  now. 

I  was  only  nine  years  old  then.  Blessed 
childhood,  which  can  so  easily  put  its 
troubles  behind  it  !  In  after  years  when 
we  look  back  upon  our  childish  sorrows 
they  loom  gigantic  before  our  eyes,  but 
while  they  are  passing  they  are  mere  epi 
sodes.  A  child  lives  but  one  day  at  a  time. 
Each  day  ends  with  the  night.  In  the 
morning  he  looks  upon  a  new  world.  I 
know  now  what  made  the  tie  so  strong 
between  us  three,  my  father,  my  mother, 
and  myself.  I  know  now  why  he  bought 
another  house  —  a  new  house,  one  with 
out  memories.  I  know  now  why  he 

[12] 


^Inofficial 


thought  of  you  and  persuaded  Auntie  to 
lend  you  to  us,  for  what  is  so  lonely  as 
an  only  child?  The  little  brother  and  sis 
ter  became  a  memory,  blurred  and  indis 
tinct,  but  you,  Miladi,  you  were  real! 

Where  do  you  think  I  went  next  ?  Over 
onto  Virginia  Avenue  to  Madame  M  —  's. 
There  everything  is  just  the  same.  Noth 
ing  is  changed.  As  I  looked  up  at  the 
building  the  lights  began  to  come  on  in  the 
various  rooms  and  I  knew  the  bell  had 
rung  for  study  hour.  Do  you  remember 
the  first  day  we  went  there  to  school? 
How  the  pupils  eyed  us  curiously  —  you 
with  your  dark,  smooth,  heavy  braids  and 
brown  eyes,  I  with  my  blue  eyes  and  fluffy, 
blonde  curls,  and  how  their  wonder  in 
creased  when  they  heard  the  little  blonde 
ten-year-old  chattering  French  to  Madame 
like  a  native? 

Do  you  know,  Miladi,  I  have  always 

connected  dark  eyes  and  hair  with  stability 

of  character!      Whenever  I   see   a   dark- 

eyed,  dark-haired  man  I  instinctively  trust 

[13] 


Unofficial  Secretary 


him.  I  think  I  loved  you  from  the  very 
first  because  you  were  so  different  from 
myself.  You  were  everything  that  I  was 
not. 

Once  when  I  was  a  little  girl  I  went 
down  into  the  kitchen  where  the  cook  was 
making  cake.  She  had  beaten  up  an  egg 
in  a  little  glass  bowl  on  the  table  and  had 
left  it  standing.  It  had  divided  into  two 
parts.  The  yolk  had  settled  to  the  bot 
tom.  The  white  remained  on  top.  Well, 
(I  have  the  craziest  fancies  sometimes!) 
that  egg  was  just  like  you  and  me.  The 
solid,  substantial  yellow  which  sank  quietly 
to  the  bottom  and  kept  out  of  sight  —  that 
was  you.  All  that  white,  feathery,  frothy 
stuff  which  rose  to  the  top  and  made  a 
great  show  —  that  was  me.  Suddenly  the 
cook  turned,  picked  up  the  egg-beater  and 
gave  it  a  quick,  brisk  turn.  Lo,  the  two 
mixed  and  became  inseparable.  That  was 
us! 

Mechanically  I  walked  up  the  steps  and 
rang  the  bell.  I  waited  in  the  reception 
[14] 


Unofficial  g>etretarp 


room  till  I  heard  the  tap-tap  of  Madame's 
cane  on  the  hardwood  floor.  I  had  an  im 
pulse  to  throw  myself  at  her  feet  and  tell 
her  all  my  grief,  but  I  looked  into  that 
placid  face  and  restrained  it.  I  said  only 
that  I  was  leaving  Washington  indefi 
nitely  and  wished  to  say  good-bye 

"Adieu?"  she  asked  with  her  quaint 
smile.  "  Non,  ma  chere,  il  n'  est  pas  adieu, 
mais  au  revoir,  n'est-ce  pas?  " 

"  Assurement"  I  answered,  not  wishing 
to  tell  her  the  real  truth.  I  shall  never 
come  back  again.  She  kissed  me  and 
said: 

"  Dieu  vous  garde,  mon  enfant.  Au 
revoir." 

I  turned  and  fled  lest  I  should  lose  my 
self-control.  If  we  all  live  to  be  a  hundred 
we  shall  still  be  "  mes  enfants  "  to 
Madame. 

I  walked  around  the  corner  into  K 
Street.  I  wonder  if  the  love  of  home  is  as 
strong  in  every  family  as  it  is  in  ours. 
It  is  in  you,  Miladi,  as  well  as  in  myself. 


Unofficial  &ecretarp 


I  looked  long  at  the  dear  old  house  last 
night,  for  this  house  was  home.  It  and 
my  father's  books  and  you  are  all  that  I 
have  left  of  the  old  life.  The  books  are 
packed  and  gone  to  storage.  You  are  far 
away,  and  I  have  placed  the  house  in  the 
hands  of  a  solicitor  for  sale,  stipulating 
only  that  I  shall  never  know  who  buys  it. 
All  was  dark  there  last  night  and  in  fancy 
I  could  hear  the  ghosts  of  the  past  chas 
ing  each  other  from  room  to  room, 
through  the  halls  and  up  and  down  the 
broad  stairways.  I  thought  of  the  light- 
hearted  laughter,  the  music,  the  merriment 
which  had  once  resounded  through  that 
house.  Now  all  has  vanished.  The  laugh 
ter  was  turned  to  tears.  The  music 
became  a  dirge. 

My  feet  seemed  chained  to  the  spot,  but 
at  last  I  turned  away  for  it  was  growing 
late.  When  I  reached  the  corner  I  looked 
back  once  more.  Dimly  outlined  against 
the  dark  sky  I  saw  for  the  last  time  the 
house  where  the  Thing  I  thought  was  Love 
[16] 


^Unofficial  &ecretarp 


came  into  my  life  and  then  went  quickly 
out  of  it.  I  think  I  know  how  Eve  must 
have  felt  when  she  was  driven  from  her 
garden. 

I  wept  the  whole  night  long.  To-day  I 
feel  as  though  I  could  never  weep  again.  I 
have  torn  up  my  life  by  the  roots.  Now 
I  must  be  patient  till  I  can  plant  a  new 
seed  in  another  soil. 

We  are  nearing  New  York.  Yonder  in 
the  distance  I  can  see  the  smoke  of  a  great 
city  and  beyond  the  city  —  the  sea  ! 

ON  BOARD  THE  Dom  Pedro. 

Four  days  out. 

A  N  unlooked-for  opportunity  to  send 

you    a    letter,    Miladi  !      In    a    few 

hours  we  are  due  to  pass  the  Argentina  on 

her  way  to  New  York,  and  the  mail  will  be 

transferred. 

I  came  on  board  at  four  o'clock  last 
Tuesday  afternoon.  We  were  to  sail  at 
four-thirty.  Such  a  scene  of  confusion 


?Hnof(irial  &ecretarp 


I  never  saw  in  all  my  life.  A  great 
ocean  liner  carrying  tourists  bound  for 
the  Mediterranean  lay  alongside  of  us. 
The  pier  was  black  with  people  —  all 
in  holiday  mood,  calling  to  friends,  wav 
ing  handkerchiefs  and  making  merry  gen 
erally.  Cab  drivers  were  swearing  as 
usual.  Expressmen  had  formed  a  line 
after  the  fashion  of  the  old-time  bucket- 
brigade  at  a  village  fire  and  were  hustling 
their  trunks  on  board,  passing  them  along 
with  the  utmost  dexterity.  The  sailors 
were  bawling,  "  All  ashore  that 's  goin' 
ashore !  "  At  last  a  gong  sounded.  The 
Captain  stepped  up  on  the  bridge  and  the 
great  monster  began  to  move. 

What  a  contrast  between  that  scene  and 
the  one  on  our  side  of  the  pier!  Sailing 
for  Europe  on  a  pleasure  trip  is  a  different 
matter  from  starting  on  a  voyage  to  South 
America.  Sad  and  anxious  faces  looked 
up  at  the  Dom  Pedro  as  the  vessel  was 
being  made  ready  to  sail.  The  women 
all  wept.  The  men  looked  as  if  they 
[18] 


Unofficial  &ecretarp 


should  like  to.  No  mirth  or  merry-making 
was  evident  either  among  those  on  board 
or  those  on  shore.  No  doubt  many  who 
were  sailing  with  us  were  going  on  busi 
ness,  but  I  think  many  were  like  myself, 
starting  out  on  a  voyage  of  discovery  in 
search  of  a  new  world.  In  one  respect  I 
was  better  off  than  my  fellow-passengers. 
I  had  left  none  to  weep. 

We  began  to  move.  I  stood  on  the  deck 
while  the  Dom  Pedro  backed  out  of  the 
river  into  the  Atlantic.  The  space  be 
tween  us  and  the  shore  widened  and  wid 
ened.  The  day  was  going.  The  declining 
sun  threw  long,  slanting  shadows  across 
the  water.  The  broken  sky-line  of  New 
York  became  indistinct  In  the  distance.  At 
last  it  faded  out  of  sight  and  I  thought 
to  myself  that  no  man  knows  what  it  is  to 
be  really  lonely  till  he  has  seen  for  the 
first  time  the  night  fall  on  the  sea. 

I  went  below  where  a  surprise  awaited 
me  —  a  most  attractive  little  cabin  with 
no  other  occupant  than  myself.  It  was 
[19] 


tHnofftctal  &ecretarp 


charmingly  fitted  up  and  looked  inviting. 
My  steamer  trunk  was  in  its  place.  A 
small  Turkish  tabouret  which  looked  sus 
piciously  as  if  it  were  in  the  habit  of 
holding  a  pipe,  tobacco,  cigars,  cigarettes 
and  other  articles  peculiar  to  the  masculine 
gender  stood  near  by  and  on  it  sat  a  bowl 
of  glowing  pink  roses.  While  I  was  pon 
dering  over  the  circumstance  the  stew 
ardess  entered  and  handed  me  a  card  on 
which  I  read,  "  Captain  Leonard  Starr." 
Below  the  name  was  a  line  in  pencil. 
Would  I  find  a  place  at  his  table? 

To  tell  the  truth  I  was  meditating  go 
ing  to  bed  without  any  dinner.  I  had  no 
desire  to  make  the  acquaintance  of  either 

—  the  cook  or  the  captain  bold 
Or  the  mate  of  the  Nancy  brig  — 

but  common  sense  (I  still  have  a  little) 
came  to  the  rescue.  In  a  voyage  which 
lasts  twenty-four  days  it  is  impossible  not 
to  mingle  with  one's  fellow-passengers  to 
a  certain  extent.  Moreover,  that 's  a  long 

[20] 


^Unofficial 


time  to  go  without  anything  to  eat.  Why 
put  off  the  evil  day?  I  expressed  my  ap 
preciation  of  the  Captain's  courtesy  and 
accepted. 

I  threw  open  my  trunk  and  the  first 
thing  my  eyes  fell  upon  was  a  little  dinner 
gown  of  blue  crepe.  I  slipped  out  of  my 
travelling  clothes  and  put  it  on.  Remem 
bering  your  oft-repeated  assertion  that  the 
less  attention  I  pay  to  my  hair  the  better 
it  looks,  I  let  it  severely  alone.  How  I 
used  to  hate  my  blonde  mop  when  I  was  a 
child!  I  think  that  at  the  tender  age 
of  five  I  must  have  resembled  one  of 
those  huge,  scraggly  chrysanthemums  you 
see  in  the  florist's  windows.  I  stuck  one 
of  the  pink  roses  in  my  hair  and  sallied 
forth. 

Captain  Starr  was  standing  in  the  pas 
sage.  He  looked  me  over  from  head  to 
foot,  scrutinizingly,  almost  hungrily,  and 
an  expression  I  could  neither  fathom  nor 
describe  came  over  his  face.  Then  he 
spoke,  cutting  his  words  off  short  after  the 

[21] 


^Unofficial 


manner  of  one  long  accustomed  to  give 
commands. 

"Miss  Leigh?" 

"  Yes." 

"  So.     Come  this  way." 

I  never  before  appreciated  how  John 
Smith  must  have  felt  when  the  Indians 
made  him  run  the  gantlet.  Every  indi 
vidual  eye  in  that  dining-room  was  turned 
full  upon  me  and  there  was  no  Pocahontas 
to  come  to  the  rescue.  I  was  filled  with 
consternation.  Was  I  overdressed?  No. 
The  other  ladies  wore  dinner  gowns.  Had 
I  forgotten  anything?  No.  I  felt  all 
right.  Take  it  from  me,  Miladi,  the  con 
solations  of  religion  are  nothing  to  the 
feeling  that  your  gown  is  hooked  straight 
in  the  back.  Then,  what  in  the  nation  was 
everybody  looking  at  me  for? 

Our  table  seats  six,  and  we  are  six  as 
totally  different  people  as  can  be  imagined. 
At  the  end  is  a  man  who  is  typically 
American.  I  knew  the  moment  I  heard 
him  speak  that  he  came  from  somewhere 

[22] 


(Unofficial 


west  of  the  Rocky  Mountains.  He  has 
that  peculiar  characteristic  (I  can  not  de 
scribe  it)  which  in  Washington  we  used  to 
call  "  west-y."  He  is  a  coffee  importer 
and  has  large  interests  in  Brazil  which  ac 
counts  for  his  presence  among  us.  Next 
to  him,  two  Catholic  Sisters,  gentlewomen 
both,  educated  and  refined,  their  faces  tell 
ing  the  usual  story  —  hardship,  loyalty, 
devotion  to  duty,  renunciation.  One  is  go 
ing  in  order  that  a  large  convent  in  Buenos 
Aires  may  have  an  English-speaking 
Mother  Superior.  The  other  because,  ac 
cording  to  the  rules  of  their  Order,  the 
one  might  not  go  alone.  They  looked  as 
lonesome  as  I  felt. 

Directly  opposite  me  is  a  man  of  twenty- 
eight  or  thirty,  strikingly  handsome  and 
bearing  the  unmistakable  earmarks  of  the 
Foreign  Correspondent.  He  talks  easily 
and  breezily  on  every  subject  under  the 
sun.  Captain  Starr  and  I  make  up  the  rest 
of  the  party. 

When  we  had  been  properly  introduced 
[23] 


Unofficial 


everybody  (except  myself)  began  to  talk, 
each  along  his  own  particular  line. 

The  Man  from  beyond  the  Rockies: 
"  Yes,  out  where  I  come  from  we  use  an 
enormous  lot  of  coffee  —  much  more  in 
proportion  than  they  do  in  the  East. 
Brazil  —  that  's  where  I  'm  going  —  is  the 
great  coffee  country.  That  's  where  you 
get  the  best." 

The  Sister  of  Mercy  (to  her  compan 
ion)  :  "  We  must  be  prepared  to  find 
things  very  different  there.  The  Spanish 
children  will  not  be  like  those  at  home." 

The  Foreign  Correspondent  :  "  Oh,  I  Ve 
had  a  few  rattling  experiences.  The  worst 
thing  I  ever  got  mixed  up  in  was  a  revolu 
tion  in  Mexico  —  one  of  those  get-there- 
quick  affairs,  all  over  in  a  day.  Life  was 
the  cheapest  thing  on  the  market  that  day." 

Captain  Starr:  "Yes,  I've  lived  for 
thirty  years  on  my  ship.  A  direct  line  to 
South  America  was  a  long-felt  want  and 
finally  became  a  necessity."  Then  turn 
ing  to  me  he  added:  "  If  you  had  gone 
[24] 


tHnofftctal 


down  a  few  years  ago  you  would  have  had 
to  go  first  to  England  or  Germany  in  order 
to  get  back  into  your  own  hemisphere." 

Never  tell  me  again,  Miladi,  that  curi 
osity  is  confined  to  our  sex.  Both  the  Man 
from  beyond  the  Rockies  and  the  Foreign 
Correspondent  had  been  eyeing  me  fur 
tively  but  at  the  Captain's  words  they 
sat  up  and  took  notice.  Both  of  those  men 
are  positively  perishing  to  know  why  I  am 
going  to  South  America,  and  after  the  man 
ner  of  his  kind,  the  M.  F.  B.  T.  R.  dealt 
me  a  blow  right  out  from  the  shoulder. 

"  And  where  are  you  going,  Miss 
Leigh?" 

"  To  Paraguay." 

"Paraguay!"  he  sputtered,  "but  — 
what  —  where  —  ?  " 

Now  far  be  it  from  me,  Miladi,  to  de 
clare  my  intentions  upon  so  short  an  ac 
quaintance.  So  affecting  to  misunderstand 
his  meaning  I  answered  sweetly, 

"Where  is  Paraguay?  Why,  it  is  a 
little  yellow  spot  on  the  map  of  South 
[25] 


{Unofficial  &ecretarp 


America,  if  I  remember.  Am  I  right,  Cap 
tain  Starr?" 

"  Quite  right,  quite  right,"  he  replied, 
while  everybody  laughed  except  the  M.  F. 
B.  T.  R.  He  subsided  momentarily,  but 
he  will  ask  me  again.  I  know  he  will.  I 
am  acquainted  with  the  species. 

After  dinner  we  separated.  Each  went 
his  way  —  the  Captain  to  his  duties,  the 
Sisters  to  their  devotions.  The  M.  F.  B. 
T.  R.  sought  the  solace  of  a  good  cigar. 
At  the  foot  of  the  stairs  the  F.  C.  stepped 
aside  to  let  me  pass,  and  as  he  did  so,  he 
shot  me  a  glance  from  two  dark,  mischiev 
ous,  mocking  eyes,  a  glance  that  was  a  chal 
lenge.  Miladi,  that  man  is  planning  to 
"  interview  "  me,  and  he  is  quite  capable 
of  rushing  the  report  off  by  wireless  to  the 
office  in  time  for  the  evening  edition.  That 
look  said  far  plainer  than  words,  "  I  -will 
know  why  you  are  going  to  Paraguay." 

Well,  —  I  saw  him  first. 

He  sauntered  off  down  the  promenade, 
no  doubt  to  map  out  his  plan  of  attack. 
[26] 


(Unofficial 


I  went  below,  and  the  morning  and  the 
evening  were  the  first  day. 

STILL  ON  BOARD.    Next  day. 

PATIENT  and  long-suffering  cous- 
in!  Really  my  conscience  hurts  me 
when  I  think  what  a  flood  of  literature  I 
am  unloading  upon  you,  but  I  am  like  the 
minister  who  preached  the  sermon  on  Eter 
nal  Punishment.  I  just  have  to  get  it  out 
of  my  system  !  Moreover,  I  know  you  will 
read  it  every  word  down  to  the  last  period. 

The  Argentina  is  a  day  overdue  —  so 
we  are  informed  by  wireless  —  hence  this 
second  effusion.  It  will  be  many  days  be 
fore  I  can  send  you  another  letter  and 
long,  ah,  long  before  I  can  hear  from  you. 

When  I  went  below  on  that  first  night  I 
got  into  negligee  and  threw  myself  on  the 
bed,  for  I  must  tell  you  that  my  little  cabin 
has  not  the  ordinary  berth  but  a  pretty 
brass  bed  such  as  one  would  have  at  home. 
As  usual,  the  moment  I  was  alone,  the 
[27] 


^Inofficial  £s>ecrctarj> 


ghosts  and  goblins  began  their  merry  dance 
around  me  again.  Try  as  I  would  I  could 
not  fight  them  back,  and  while  I  was  busily 
engaged  in  the  effort  the  Dom  Pedro  be 
gan  to  cut  strange  capers.  Almost  in  an 
instant  she  changed  from  a  quiet  and  tract 
able  creature  to  a  wild  and  unruly  thing. 
She  was  seized  with  a  violent  spasm. 
Every  part  of  her  great  being  was  con 
vulsed.  She  became  a  raving  maniac.  The 
sailors  were  rushing  here  and  there,  pull 
ing,  hauling.  The  passage  was  filled  with 
excited  passengers  some  of  whom  had  for 
gotten  various  parts  of  their  wearing  ap 
parel.  Outside  it  was  as  black  as  the  Ace 
of  Spades.  If  you  looked  out  the  night 
made  faces  at  you  like  a  huge  gargoyle. 
You  could  n't  have  cut  the  fog  with  a 
cheese  knife.  The  Dom  Pedro  acted  for 
all  the  world  like  a  horse  at  a  hurdle  race. 
She  would  skim  along  for  a  few  hundred 
feet  and  then  all  at  once  you  held  your 
breath  while  she  took  the  hurdle.  Up  — 
down  !  Then  the  rain  came  in  sheets.  In 


Unofficial 


the  midst  of  all  the  hurry  and  scurry, 
the  bustle  and  confusion,  I  heard  the 
calm,  commanding  voice  of  Captain 
Starr  ringing  out  above  the  roar  of  the 
wind. 

You  know  I  have  always  loved  a  storm, 
Miladi.  This  one  was  positively  glorious 
and  I  welcomed  it  because  it  was  powerful 
enough  to  chase  the  ghosts  and  goblins 
away. 

While  I  lay  there  listening  to  the  noise 
of  wind  and  wave  I  heard  voices  outside 
in  the  passage.  I  opened  the  door  and 
peeped  out.  Oh,  Miladi  !  If  only  you 
could  have  seen  the  sight  which  met  my 
eyes!  Sitting  on  the  stairs  were  the  two 
most  disconsolate-looking  individuals  I 
ever  witnessed.  I  could  n't  keep  from 
laughing.  This  is  what  I  heard  — 

She  (in  a  gorgeous  purple  kimono,  hair 
in  curl  papers,  limp  as  a  rag,  and  wild- 
eyed  with  terror)  :  "  Hubby,  do  you  think 
we  're  going  to  the  bottom?  " 

Hubby  (in  union  suit,  slippers,  rain  coat, 
[29] 


Unofficial  &ecretarp 


and  a  travelling  cap  which  sat  jauntily  on 
one  ear)  :  "  It  looks  like  it." 

She  (with  a  sigh  of  resignation)  : 
'  Well,  if  we  are,  I  don't  see  why  we 
could  n't  have  done  it  an  hour  ago!  " 

Hubby  vouchsafed  no  reply.  He  was 
pea-green  of  hue  and  from  the  way  he 
lovingly  caressed  his  stomach  I  think  he 
must  have  had  "  inside  information." 

I  closed  the  door  softly  and  went  back 
to  bed.  Personally  I  did  n't  care  a  cracker 
whether  the  Dom  Pedro  stayed  in  one  piece 
long  enough  to  take  another  hurdle  or  not, 
but  after  all  I  was  better  off  than  my 
neighbors.  I  was  homesick,  heartsick 
enough,  goodness  knows,  but,  thank 
Heaven,  not  seasick. 

Well,  the  storm  got  past  the  raving, 
maniacal  stage.  It  began  to  gibber  and 
babble  like  a  simple  idiot  and  at  last  it 
grew  quite  still.  The  ocean  fell  asleep. 
I  slept  also  and  when  I  awoke  again  it  was 
just  sunrise.  The  sea  dimpled  and  smiled 
like  a  baby  asleep  in  its  mother's  arms.  I 
[30] 


Unofficial  &ecretarp 


sat  up  in  bed  and  looked  out  at  the  port 
hole.  We  were  passing  some  little  green 
islands.  The  world  was  rainbow-hued.  It 
was  as  though  the  King  of  Day  had  emp 
tied  his  jewel  casket  on  the  sea.  Every 
color  was  there  —  the  creamy  tint  of  pearl 
which  a  touch  warmed  into  opal,  the  yellow 
of  the  topaz,  the  pink  of  the  coral  deepen 
ing  in  places  to  the  glow  of  the  ruby,  the 
blue  of  the  sapphire,  the  green  of  the 
emerald,  the  purple  of  the  amethyst.  The 
dawn  lay  on  the  face  of  the  waters  like  a 
benediction,  and,  Miladi,  as  I  sat  looking 
at  the  scene,  something  happened  to  me. 
Something  whispered  "  Peace  "  to  my 
troubled  soul.  All  my  sorrows  faded 
away.  I  slipped  out  of  them  as  one  would 
discard  an  old  coat  which  has  become  too 
large.  One  after  another  I  threw  them 
into  the  sea  —  consigned  each  one  in  turn 
to  Davy  Jones'  Locker  from  which  (with 
apologies  to  Shakespeare)  no  traveller  re 
turns.  I  may  meet  other  and  greater  sor 
rows  as  I  walk  my  way  —  no  doubt  I  shall. 


Unofficial  &ecretarp 


But  then  and  there  I  registered  a  vow 
that  I  would  no  longer  be  bothered  by  the 
has  beens. 

I  slipped  back  into  bed  with  a  feeling 
I  can  not  describe.  I  think  I  felt  as  one 
must  who,  after  a  lingering  illness  which 
has  brought  him  almost  to  the  brink,  is 
convalescent  at  last.  Life,  which  for  so 
long  had  been  out  of  tune,  was  in  harmony 
again  with  the  great  soul  of  things. 

When  I  went  down  to  breakfast  I 
looked  about  me  in  astonishment.  What 
on  earth  had  happened?  There  were  peo 
ple  on  this  boat  yesterday.  Where  were 
they  now?  It  took  but  a  glance  over  the 
dining-room  to  convince  me  that  I  was  the 
sole  representative  of  my  sex  that  had 
shown  up  so  far.  Captain  Starr  sat  at  the 
table  in  solitary  grandeur.  He  looked  up 
in  surprise. 

"  Well!  "  he  said,  "  Good-morning!  " 

"  Good-morning.  Where  is  every 
body?" 

His  eye  twinkled  but  before  he  had  time 
[32] 


{Unofficial 


to  reply  the  M.  F.  B.  T.  R.  sauntered  in. 
Vainly  he  tried  to  conceal  the  havoc  which 
the  night  had  wrought  in  his  self-assur 
ance.  But  his  attempt  at  nonchalance  was 
a  dismal  failure.  He  had  a  go-'way-and- 
let-me-die-in-peace  expression  which  was 
excruciatingly  funny  and  I  could  but  note 
that  his  morning  repast  consisted  of  coffee, 
strong  and  black.  Poor  man  !  He  looked 
so  miserable  that  I  almost  forgave  him  for 
asking  me  questions. 

After  breakfast  Captain  Starr  took  me 
over  the  ship.  I  saw  everything  there  was 
to  see  (except  the  passengers)  from  the 
huge  engines,  which  keep  us  going,  to 
the  kitchen  and  the  steward's  pantry.  The 
latter  looks  as  if  its  stock  of  supplies  could 
never  be  exhausted  and  as  for  the  ice-box, 
well,  Miladi,  tell  it  not  in  Gath,  but  in  that 
ice-box  is  every  kind  of  a  bottle  known  to 
the  Anglo-Saxon  race  !  Take  my  word  for 
it. 

Captain  Starr  is  a  fine  old  man,  sixty- 
five  I  should  think.  On  duty  he  is  quick 
[33] 


Unofficial  g>ecretarp 


U 


of  word  and  action,  evidently  accustomed 
to  having  his  orders  instantly  obeyed.  Off 
duty  he  is  kindly,  approachable,  courtly,  a 
man  of  refinement  —  a  gentleman  of  the 
old  school. 

Do  you  know,  Miladi,  the  longer  I  live 
the  more  I  think  that  refinement  is  the 
ne  plus  ultra  of  life.  What  a  difference  be 
tween  him  that  hath  and  him  that  hath  it 
not !  It  says  to  him  that  hath,  "  This  thou 
may'st  do  —  this  thou  can'st  not."  No 
matter  how  thickly  gilded  is  the  exte 
rior  of  him  that  hath  not,  one  sees  al 
ways  the  whited  sepulchre  underneath. 
It  takes  centuries  to  get  it  into  a  man. 
Once  there  it  takes  centuries  more  to  get 
it  out  of  him.  Like  pride,  it  is  racial  and 
inherited. 

Captain  Starr  found  me  a  shady  corner 
and  then  excused  himself.  He  walked  off 
down  the  deck,  his  splendid  figure  straight 
as  an  arrow,  his  head  held  in  the  manner 
of  one  who  has  never  known  fear,  yet  as 
I  looked  after  him  I  felt  suddenly  a  great 
[34] 


Unofficial 


lump  in  my  throat.  I  could  n't  help  feel 
ing  sorry  for  him.  I  wonder  why? 

Au  revoir,  Miladi,  I  am  getting  far,  oh, 
so  far  from  you  and  from  what  I  used  to 
call  home.  Hereafter  wherever  I  am  shall 
be  home.  I  feel  a  little  like  The  Man 
Without  a  Country  —  no,  I  will  not  say 
that.  From  the  quiet  corner  where  I  am 
writing  I  have  but  to  raise  my  eyes  to  see 
the  flag-staff  of  the  Dom  Pedro  from  which 
floats  something  which  makes  it  impossible 
for  me  to  forget  that  I  have  a  country  — 
the  flag  of  the  United  States. 

Adieu,  then,  I  know  that  your  letters 
are  following  me  to  the  far  south.  I  must 
be  patient  till  they  come. 

STILL  ON  BOARD. 

T"\  EAREST  cousin-o'-mine,  can  you 
^^^  tell  me  why  a  man  on  board  a  ship 
feels  privileged  to  make  love  to  every 
woman  he  sees  whether  she  be  old  or 
young,  blonde  or  brunette,  married  or 
[35] 


Unofficial 


unattached?  There  have  been  days  late 
ly  when  I  found  it  necessary  to  lock  my 
self  up  in  my  stateroom.  Unless  we  sight 
land  before  long  we  shall  have  need  of  a 
Court  of  Domestic  Relations  on  the  Dom 
Pedro, 

I  Ve  had  it  out  with  each  one  in  turn. 
One  night  when  I  went  up  from  dinner  I 
heard  some  one  singing  in  the  music  room 
an  aria  from  "  Rigoletto  "  in  an  exquisite 
tenor  voice.  You  know  I  always  had  a 
penchant  for  following  the  band  so  I  flew 
down  to  hear  the  music.  No  one  seemed 
to  know  who  the  singer  was  but  he  sang 
song  after  song,  among  them  some  that 
I  love,  by  Kipling  —  "  On  the  Road  to 
Mandalay,"  "  Mother-o'-Mine,"  and  last 
of  all: 

Go  rolling  down  to  Rio, 
Roll  down,  roll  down  to  Rio. 
I'd  like  to  roll  to  Rio 
Some  day  before  I  'm  old. 

I  found  myself  standing  by  the  Man 
from  beyond  the  Rockies,  so  I  said, 
[36] 


Unofficial 


"  Well,  that  's  what  we  're  doing  — 
rolling  down  to  Rio." 

He  looked  at  me  expressively  for  a  mo 
ment  and  then  said  in  a  most  confiding 
tone, 

"  I  could  dispense  with  some  of  the 
rolling." 

I  recalled  his  abject  appearance  the 
morning  after  the  storm  and  was  moved 
to  irreverent  mirth.  Presently,  however, 
he  laughed  too  and  suddenly  we  became 
good  friends,  but  it  did  n't  last  —  oh,  no, 
it  did  n't  last.  For  a  few  days  he  pursued 
me  relentlessly  and  one  evening  when  I 
thought  myself  securely  hidden,  he  sud 
denly  joined  me  on  his  own  invitation. 

Now,  I  was  laboring  under  the  impres 
sion  that  he  was  a  perfectly  respectable 
married  man,  Miladi,  and  I  thought  it 
quite  natural  when  he  referred  several 
times  to  the  fact  that  he  was  "  lonely." 
So  when  he  took  a  seat  beside  me  on  this 
particular  night  I  was  quite  unprepared 
for  the  shock.  His  manner,  however,  was 
[37] 


ffinoifmal  &ecretarp 


unmistakable.  He  had  the  prevailing  com 
plaint.  He  heaved  several  sighs  at  stated 
intervals  and  then  said  pensively, 

"  But  since  my  wife  died  —  " 

Just  as  he  uttered  these  soulful  words 
the  Foreign  Correspondent  sauntered  by 
and  made  a  wry  face  at  me  over  his  shoul 
der.  I  could  have  eaten  him  alive,  but 
instead  I  remembered  something  I  wanted 
downstairs  and  I  spent  the  rest  of  that 
delightful  evening  in  the  cabin  reading  Le 
Monde  ou  I'  on  s'ennuie. 

I  was  absolutely  at  the  mercy  of  the  F. 
C.  after  that  night.  He  mockingly  con 
gratulated  me  on  my  "  conquest  "  and  re 
ferred  to  the  object  of  his  remarks  as 
"  ye  ancient,  sad-eyed  Romeo." 

I  tried  to  explain  to  him  that  he  who 
wastes  sentiment  on  me  is  likewise  wasting 
time,  for  I  need  not  tell  you,  Miladi,  that 
I  am  everlastingly  done  with  —  what  shall 
I  name  it  —  the  Thing  called  Love.  I  have 
no  doubt  that  Love,  the  genuine  article, 
does  exist  somewhere  in  God's  universe, 
[38] 


Unofficial  g>ecretarp 


but  how  is  one  to  know  when  he 
meets  him  face  to  face  whether  it  is  the 
little  god  himself  or  only  one  of  his  hench 
men?  In  the  belief  that  we  could  not  be 
mistaken  as  to  his  identity  we  rear  a  temple 
which  we  think  is  built  of  granite.  We 
find  it  but  a  house  of  cards  which  falls  to 
pieces  when  the  summer  winds  blow  against 
it.  I  no  longer  feel  regret  at  the  destruc 
tion  of  my  temple,  but  I  will  build  no  more, 
no  more. 

Well,  I  accepted  the  F.  C.'s  merry  ban 
ter,  in  fact  rather  enjoyed  it,  until  one 
evening  —  .  He  fell.  Like  Lucifer,  Star 
of  the  Morning,  he  fell! 

Never  waste  any  more  time  going  to 
Europe,  Miladi.  If  you  want  a  sea  voyage 
come  southward.  All  the  angry  grandeur 
dies  out  of  the  ocean  as  you  go  along. 
The  air  becomes  soft  and  balmy.  The 
trade  winds  are  moist  and  velvety  and 
touch  your  cheek  like  a  caress.  The  skies 
are  kindly  and  sapphire  blue.  The  flying 
fish  dart  in  and  out  about  the  prow  of  the 
[39] 


<TfK  ^Unofficial  &ecrrtarp 

boat.  Old  Neptune  smiles  at  the  Equator. 
All  that  is  turbulent  and  troublesome  seems 
very  far  away. 

I  was  standing  in  the  prow  one  evening 
watching  the  sun  go  down  when  the  F.  C. 
joined  me.  He  was  not  in  his  usual  breezy 
mood  but  I  was  paying  little  attention  for 
I  was  thinking  unutterable  things.  I  was 
wondering  why  there  must  be  so  many 
tragedies  in  this  beautiful  world.  We  are 
not  responsible  for  our  birth.  We  fight 
through  our  childhood  and  our  youth  as 
best  we  may.  We  face  the  real  problems 
of  manhood  and  womanhood  and  either 
conquer  or  are  conquered  by  them.  Then 
we  pass  out  of  life,  worldly  and  satisfied  or 
still  longing  and  unsatisfied,  according  as 
success  or  failure  have  brushed  our  gar 
ments  as  we  walked.  If  success  is  ours 
it  is  due  to  sacrifice.  Grief  is  the  price  we 
pay  for  Love.  I  thought  of  a  story  my 
father  used  to  tell  about  Abd-el-Rahman 
III,  the  Great  Caliph.  He  lived  to  be  an 
old  man  and  after  his  death  some  one 
[40] 


{Unofficial  £>ecretarp 


found  a  paper  on  which  he  had  carefully 
noted  all  the  days  of  his  long  life  which 
had  been  free  from  sorrow.  There  were 
but  fourteen.  "  Know,  O  Man  of  Under 
standing,"  he  wrote,  "  how  small  is  the  lot 
of  perfect  happiness  accorded  even  to  the 
most  fortunate  !  " 

Just  fancy  my  astonishment  when,  with 
my  mind  full  of  such  thoughts  as  these,  I 
suddenly  felt  my  hand  (which  I  had  put 
up  to  brush  back  a  stray  lock  of  hair) 
caught  as  in  a  vice  and  heard  a  tense  voice 
say, 

"  Don't  touch  it.     It  's  perfect  !  " 

"W  —  what's  perfect?"  I  gasped. 

44  Your  hair!" 

Great  Scott!  Once  more  I  fled.  I  was 
forced  to  renounce  the  beauties  of  nature 
again  and  to  seek  the  solace  of  Moliere. 

In  the  morning,  however,  Richard  was 
himself  again.  The  stewardess  brought 
me  a  note  in  which  he  assured  me  that  he 
was  the  possessor  of  a  broken  and  a  con 
trite  heart. 


{Unofficial  &tcretarp 


But  there  is  one  man  on  this  boat  whom 
I  can  not  understand  at  all.  That  is  Cap 
tain  Starr.  It  would  be  absurd  to  accuse 
him  of  sentimentality  yet  his  attitude  to 
ward  me  is  one  of  protecting  tenderness, 
that  of  a  man  to  whose  care  something 
very  dear  has  been  entrusted.  Moreover, 
I  strongly  suspect  that  I  am  occupying  his 
cabin,  and  last  night,  when  I  went  below, 
he  said  absently, 

"  Good-night,  my  dear,  —  good-night." 
I    wish    I    could    understand    him.      I 
wonder  if  I  ever  shall. 

THE  Dom  Pedro.    Last  day  on  board. 

I  'd  a  Bible  in  my  hand 
As  I  sailed,  as  I  sailed, 
And  I  stuck  it  in  the  sand 
As  I  sailed. 

—  Captain  Kidd. 

T  'VE  a  Bible  in  my  trunk,  Miladi,  and 

I  have  n't  seen  any  sand  for  so  long 

that  I  should  not  recognize  it  if  I  met  it 

face  to  face,  but  the  rest  of  the  above  is 

[42] 


®no(fiual 


O.  K.  I  have  sailed  and  sailed  —  and 
sailed.  I  feel  for  all  the  world  like  the 
Flying  Dutchman. 

I  don't  know  just  where  I  left  off  and 
there  is  so  much  to  tell  that  I  do  not 
know  where  to  begin. 

A  few  days  ago  Captain  Starr  said  to 
me  at  dinner,  "  If  you  feel  like  coming  on 
deck  at  seven  in  the  morning,  there  will 
be  something  to  see."  Needless  to  say  I 
was  there. 

Shall  I  ever  forget  it,  —  my  first  peep 
at  this  land  of  scenic  splendor?  It  was 
exactly  as  though  I  had  turned  over  the 
page  of  a  book  and  had  come  suddenly 
upon  a  charming  illustration.  We  were 
approaching  Bahia,  and  how  picturesque 
the  view  from  the  sea  !  The  quaint,  old 
town,  so  curiously  built,  looked  as  though 
it  were  lying  on  shelves  of  different 
altitudes.  There  is  an  upper  and  a  lower 
town,  and  nearly  three  hundred  thou 
sand  people.  The  new  town  is  on  the 
hills  and  from  the  heights  above,  one  has 


Unofficial  &ecretarp 


a  superb  view  of  the  ocean.  An  inclined 
tramway  connects  the  new  town  on  the 
hills  with  the  old  town  lying  on  the  shore, 
and  it  was  the  latter  which  quite  fas 
cinated  me. 

You  know,  Miladi,  that  I  have  always 
had  a  wholesome  respect  for  age.  A 
musty  old  library,  a  battered  old  fort, 
a  mediaeval  church,  cathedral,  or  convent, 
a  piece  of  old  lace,  the  paintings  of  the 
Old  Masters,  last  of  all  —  don't  laugh  — 
a  neglected  old  cemetery  —  these  have 
always  had  for  me  a  peculiar  fas 
cination.  I  suppose  you  have  not  for 
gotten  the  summer  father  took  us  to 
London.  In  my  youthful  exuberance  of 
spirit  I  forgot  his  fifty  years  and  remem 
bered  only  my  seventeen.  One  day  I  in 
veigled  him  into  taking  a  walk  with  me. 
We  walked  and  walked  and  walked.  He 
was  very  tired  and  just  as  we  were  about 
to  retrace  our  steps  we  came  suddenly 
upon  an  old  church  with  its  adjoining 
graveyard.  Only  a  few  of  the  stones 
[44] 


Unofficial  &ecretarp 


were   decipherable,   but   on   one   of   them 
we  read: 

Weep  not,  dear  friend, 
Though  death  us  sever. 
I'm    going   to    do    nothing 
Forever  and  ever. 

I  looked  at  Daddy  and  he  looked  at 
me,  and  presently  he  said  (not  without 
emphasis)  : 

"I  envy  her!" 

We  were  to  stop  half  a  day  at  Bahia 
so  I  went  on  shore  with  Captain  Starr. 
He  generously  invited  the  F.  C.  to  ac 
company  us,  but  in  the  language  of  the 
immortal  Dinkenspiel,  he  declined  "  mit 
his  biggest  dignitude,"  and  went  moor 
ing  off  by  himself. 

Everything  in  Bahia,  that  is,  in  the  old 
town,  reminds  one  of  Spain  —  the  vari 
colored  buildings,  the  narrow,  ill-smelling 
streets,  most  of  all  the  people.  As  we 
walked  along  we  came  to  a  fine  old  fif 
teenth  century  church.  I  literally  dragged 
my  companion  inside.  The  candles  and 
[45] 


Unofficial  £?>tcretarp 


the  altar-fittings  are  very  old  but  the  great 
treasure  is  the  altar-cloth,  woven  in 
threads  of  gold  and  said  to  have  been 
brought  from  Peru  and  to  have  been  made 
by  Queen  Isabella  herself.  It  looked  the 
part.  The  cloth  on  which  the  design  is 
woven  is  quite  worn  away,  but  the  gold 
threads  are  still  beautiful  and  bright. 

During  the  two  hours  I  spent  in  Bahia 
I  had  a  most  striking  illustration  of  the 
part,  dangerous  and  powerful,  which 
money  plays  in  the  great  game  of  life. 
The  South  Americans  claim  that  Bahia 
is  now  the  centre  of  the  diamond  trade  of 
the  world  —  a  fact  known  only  to  those 
who  buy  and  sell  the  diamonds. 

Not  a  great  many  years  ago,  Cecil 
Rhodes  went  out  from  England  and 
grabbed  —  yes,  that  is  the  right  word  — 
the  diamond  fields  at  Kimberley.  He 
wrote  his  government  that  he  conceived 
it  to  be  his  duty  to  paint  as  much  of 
the  map  of  South  Africa  British  red  as 


[46] 


Cfjc  Unofficial  ^>ccretarp 

possible.  He  did  so,  using  for  the  paint 
the  blood  of  England's  best  —  her  lords, 
her  earls,  her  dukes,  and  her  Tommy 
Atkinses.  Since  that  time,  so  say  the 
South  Americans,  the  South  African  Syn 
dicate  has  paid  vast  sums  of  money  to 
the  European  Press  to  promulgate  the 
idea  that  the  Brazilian  diamond  fields 
are  dead.  Believe  it  never,  Miladi.  In 
Washington  one  sees  some  of  the  most 
sumptuous  diamonds  in  the  world,  but 
even  there  I  have  never  seen  such  bril 
liant  gems  as  I  saw  in  the  diamond 
brokers'  shops  in  Bahia,  and  they  came 
from  the  native  soil. 

When  we  went  on  board  again  I  saw 
the  F.  C.  looking  disconsolately  over  the 
railing.  He  pretended  that  he  did  n't 
see  me  but  I  knew  better. 

We  touched  again  at  Victoria  but  I 
did  not  go  ashore,  and  a  few  days  later, 
just  as  the  afternoon  was  beginning  to 
wane,  we  sailed  into  the  Bay  of  Rio. 

No    wonder    that    Kipling    wanted    to 


<Etjc  Unofficial 


"  roll  to  Rio  "  some  day  before  he  was 
old.  All  the  adjectives  in  my  vocabulary 
sank  to  the  bottom  of  the  sea.  For 
once  I  was  speechless.  It  is  indescribable. 
It  is  matchless.  It  is  unrivalled  in  all 
the  world.  The  Bay  of  Naples  fades 
into  insignificance.  The  Golden  Gate  of 
San  Francisco  is  n't  in  it.  Surely  at 
some  time  or  other,  Artist  Nature  must 
have  emptied  her  color  box  into  the  Bay 
of  Rio  de  Janeiro.  There  are  lovely  lit 
tle  islands  lying  in  it,  as  though  they  had 
been  dropped  carelessly  there.  Where 
the  boat  lands  the  bay  is  almost  round 
and  there  is  a  splendid  esplanade  encir 
cling  it.  Back  of  it  are  high  mountains 
covered  with  tall,  slender,  green  trees. 

Rio  is  one  of  the  most  interesting  cities 
I  have  ever  seen.  The  Municipal  Theatre 
is  architecturally  magnificent,  the  Botan 
ical  Gardens  the  finest  in  the  world.  One 
building  is,  of  course,  of  much  interest  to 
Americans  —  the  Monroe  Palace,  built  in 
honor  of  our  President  James  Monroe. 
[48] 


&ecretarp 


The  F.  C.  was  leaving  us  at  Rio. 
Later  he  is  going  to  Buenos  Aires,  then 
across  country  to  Valparaiso,  up  the  west 
ern  coast  to  the  Canal,  then  back  to  New 
York.  I  went  for  a  walk  with  him  on 
the  esplanade.  I  told  him  all  about  you, 
Miladi,  and  he  said  that  when  he  got 
back  to  "  God's  Country  "  he  would  look 
you  up.  Be  good  to  him.  He  's  a  nice 
boy. 

We  stopped  again  at  Santos,  the  great 
coffee  port  of  South  America,  and  one 
can  have  no  conception  of  the  immensity 
of  the  coffee  industry  till  he  sees  it  on  its 
native  heath.  Many  of  our  party  left 
the  Dom  Pedro  at  Santos,  among  them 
the  M.  F.  B.  T.  R.  When  we  went  to 
dinner  that  night  there  were  only  the  Sis 
ters  of  Mercy,  Captain  Starr,  and  myself. 
We  all  agreed  that  we  missed  the  F.  C.'s 
breezy  chatter  very  much. 

It  was  a  long  run  from  Santos  to  the 
next  port  and  every  day  was  just  like  the 
day  before  it.  At  last,  however,  we  put 


Unofficial  Secretary 


in  again  and  I  did  not  wonder  that  the 
old  explorer  when  he  sailed  in  here  ex 
claimed,  "Monte  video!"  (I  see  a  moun 
tain),  nor  that  the  words  have  remained 
as  the  name  of  the  cultured  capital  of 
Uruguay. 

The  journey  of  the  Dom  Pedro  is 
drawing  to  a  close,  and  ah,  Miladi,  how 
I  have  come  to  love  this  ship  !  I  do  not 
want  to  leave  it.  And  I  have  formed  the 
strangest  sort  of  an  attachment  for  Cap 
tain  Starr.  I  have  the  feeling  that  no 
harm  can  come  to  me  while  I  am  with 
him. 

This  will  be  our  last  night  on  board. 
To-morrow  we  are  due  to  land  at  Buenos 
Aires.  In  a  few  days  the  Dom  Pedro 
will  start  on  its  return  trip  to  New  York, 
while  I  have  still  a  week's  journey  up  a 
winding  and  tortuous  river  to  Paraguay. 

Twenty-seven  days  at  sea,  Miladi,  and 
seven  thousand  miles  from  New  York! 
The  world  is  wide. 

[50] 


(Unofficial  &ccretarp 


BUENOS  AIRES,  S.  A.,  November  27. 

\T7ELL,  here  I  am,  actually  in  South 
America  at  last,  and,  Miladi,  if 
Africa  is  the  world's  great  jungle,  then 
surely  South  America  is  the  world's  great 
garden.  It  is  a  continent  in  bloom.  I 
wrote  you  only  yesterday,  but  since  then 
the  strangest  experience  has  been  mine. 
Events  have  followed  each  other  in  such 
quick  succession  that  my  brain  is  in  a 
whirl.  Sometimes  I  wonder  if  it  is  not  all 
a  dream  and  whether  I  shall  not  awaken 
to  find  myself  back  in  Washington  with 
my  troubles  spread  out  before  me  again. 
Last  night  was  a  night  I  shall  never 
forget.  The  regret  I  felt  at  leaving  the 
boat  far  over-balanced  any  interest  I  had 
in  reaching  the  end  of  my  long  voyage. 
After  dinner  I  was  standing  in  the  prow, 
looking  over  the  railing.  The  moon  was 
as  big  as  a  cart  wheel,  the  sea  as  smooth 
as  glass.  No  sound  broke  the  silence  of 
the  night  except  the  chug-chug  of  the 


Unofficial 


Dom  Pedro's  engines.  My  mind  seemed 
capable  of  holding  but  one  thought: 
"  After  to-morrow,  all  will  be  different. 
After  to-morrow,  life  will  begin  again." 

Father  used  to  tell  me  that  my  chief 
characteristic  was  a  "  fearing-to-tread  " 
inclination  which  would  do  credit  to  an 
angel.  If  he  could  only  see  me  now  I 

While  I  stood  there  Captain  Starr  came 
along  and  stopped  beside  me.  Although 
I  was  no  nearer  to  a  solution  of  the  mys 
tery  surrounding  his  attitude  toward  me, 
I  had  grown  accustomed  to  it.  So  I  was 
not  surprised  when  he  said, 

"  We  land  at  eight  to-morrow  morn 
ing,  but  if  you  feel  like  rising  early  —  I 
mean  very  early  —  ask  the  stewardess  to 
call  you  at  half-past  four.  Come  on  deck 
and  I  will  show  you  something  you  will 
never  forget." 

He  spoke  truly.  What  I  saw  (and 
heard)  I  could  never  forget  — 

An  I  should  live  a  thousand  years. 
It  was  just  a  few  minutes  before  dawn. 
[52] 


^Unofficial  ^>ecretarj» 


The  moon  had  not  yet  set,  although 
over  in  the  east  tiny  flickers  gave  warn 
ing  that  Aurora  was  getting  ready  to 
open  the  gates.  But  above  our  heads, 
three  great,  luminous  stars  stood  out 
boldly  in  the  heavens  and  refused  to  be 
extinguished. 

"  Look!  "  said  my  companion.  "  Look 
quickly  before  it  fades.  Behold  the 
Southern  Cross!  " 

Take  my  word  for  it,  Miladi,  if  the 
sight  I  saw  last  night  were  to  be  seen  in 
Europe,  steamship  companies  would  not  be 
able  to  sell  tickets  fast  enough.  Talk 
about  the  Midnight  Sun  and  moonlight-on- 
the-Rhine  !  They  are  back  numbers. 

The  scene  lasted  only  for  a  moment. 
Then  it  began  to  change.  The  moon 
went  down.  The  great  stars  grew  dim 
and  faded  from  sight.  The  east  became 
rosy  and  beautiful  and  presently  the  sun 
peeped  up  over  the  edge  of  the  earth. 
Another  day  had  come.  Was  it  only 
this  morning? 

[53] 


<£f)c  Unofficial 


When  it  grew  lighter  I  saw  an  indis 
tinct  line  over  toward  the  west.  Land 
ho! 

"Is  it?"  I  asked. 

"  Buenos  Aires,"  he  answered  briefly, 
and  something  in  his  voice  warned  me  to 
wait  until  he  spoke  again.  Presently  he 
said, 

"  Will  you  tell  the  Consul  that  I  took 
good  care  of  you?" 

"The  Consul!"  I  said  in  astonish 
ment.  "Then  you  know  Mr.  Holt?" 

He  smiled.  "  Surely,"  he  replied. 
"  We  were  at  Harvard  together,  he  and 
I  and  your  father." 

"My  father,  too,"  I  cried.  "You 
knew  my  father?  " 

"  Yes,  —  and  I  knew  your  mother,  too, 
—  long  before  —  she  —  was  —  your 
mother." 

Then  I  asked  him  why  I  had  never 
heard  of  him  before  —  why  he  had  never 
been  to  see  us  in  Washington. 

He  gave  a  short  laugh.  "  Well,"  he 
[54] 


Unofficial 


said,  "  you  see  —  she  married  your 
father,  and  I  —  I  went  to  sea." 

Poor  Captain  Starr!  All  at  once  I  un 
derstood.  I  dared  not  break  the  si 
lence  but  waited  for  him  to  speak  again. 
He  stood  looking  out  over  the  water,  but 
seeing,  he  saw  not.  His  thoughts  had 
travelled  over  the  Long  Road  which 
leads  from  Age  back  to  Youth. 

"  Don't  think  it  was  not  all  right,"  he 
said  presently.  "  It  was.  She  loved  him, 
and  I  —  went  to  sea." 

Still  I  could  not  speak  and  after  a 
moment  he  went  on. 

"  Believe  me,  the  nearest  approach  I 
have  ever  had  to  happiness  has  been  in 
knowing  you  —  in  having  you  here  with 
me.  Tell  me,"  he  said,  turning  to  me  al 
most  fiercely,  "  tell  me,  did  he  make  her 
happy?  " 

"  Yes,  —  oh,  yes!"  I  answered,  not 
knowing  whether  I  spoke  the  truth  or 
not. 

He  drew  a  quick  breath  which  was 
[55] 


^Unofficial  &ecretarp 


almost  a  sob.  Then  he  lifted  his  tall  fig 
ure  to  its  full  height  as  though  a  great 
weight  that  he  had  borne  for  years  had 
suddenly  fallen  from  him.  He  took  a 
little  case  out  of  his  pocket  and  opened 
it  and  I  no  longer  wondered  that  he  had 
grown  fond  of  me,  Miladi,  for  the  face 
might  have  been  my  own. 

I  gave  it  back  in  silence  and  he  said, 
"  Remember,  my  dear,  if  the  world  is  un 
kind  to  you  —  if  you  need  me  —  " 

I  fled  below  for  I  could  bear  no  more. 
I  knew  he  spoke  sincerely,  knew  that  I 
might  trust  him  to  the  death  —  but  to 
hear  those  words  again,  words  that  I  had 
hoped  never  to  have  to  listen  to  again 
as  long  as  I  lived!  Who  knows  so  well 
as  I  how  little  they  mean? 

As  a  general  thing  I  am  willing  to  bank 
on  anything  which  Shakespeare  ever  saw 
fit  to  say,  and  once  upon  a  time  I  was  en 
thusiastic  about  this: 

The  friend  thou  hast     .     .     . 
Grapple  him   to   thy  soul  with   hooks  of  steel. 
[56] 


^Unofficial 


Miladi,  listen  to  the  word  of  one  who 
speaks  with  knowledge.  Don't  ever  do 
it.  Your  friend  will  wiggle  off  of  the 
hook  the  first  time  your  back  is  turned, 
and  leave  the  hook  in  your  soul! 

It  was  still  early.  I  threw  myself  on 
the  bed.  My  heart  was  pounding  as 
though  it  would  suffocate  me.  The  ghosts 
and  goblins  I  thought  long  dead  began 
to  dance  and  grin  again.  I  was  tired,  oh, 
so  tired.  I  fell  asleep,  and  in  my  dreams 
I  heard  once  more  my  beautiful  mother 
singing  —  singing  that  old  song  which 
never  meant  anything  to  me  before,  but 
now  —  ah,  Miladi,  Miladi! 

Les  amours  irrealises 

Sont  encore  les  seuls  fideles! 

I  slept  for  an  hour,  the  deep  sleep  of 
exhaustion.  Then  the  stewardess  brought 
me  some  coffee  and  when  I  went  on  deck 
again  a  few  moments  later  we  were  enter 
ing  the  River  of  Silver,  the  pathway,  as  it 
were,  to  the  beautiful  City  of  Good  Airs. 
[57] 


tHnoUtcial  &ecretarp 


Where  is  he  (or  she)  who  has  never 
had  a  presentiment?  Captain  Starr  was 
on  duty,  of  course,  as  the  boat  came  in, 
but  had  asked  me  to  wait  for  him  below, 
and  as  I  stood  by  the  railing  watching  the 
scene  I  was  seized  with  a  strange,  almost 
overpowering  feeling  that  something  was 
about  to  happen.  I  was  not  mistaken. 

On  board  all  was  excitement.  Every 
body  except  myself  seemed  anxious  to 
leave  the  Dom  Pedro.  The  green,  unfa 
miliar  shore  dotted  with  white  buildings 
which  the  early-morning,  South  American 
sun  made  creamy-looking,  came  nearer  and 
nearer.  At  last  we  were  there. 

I  was  looking  idly  over  the  railing 
where  the  steps  were  being  lowered.  They 
had  no  more  than  touched  the  dock  when 
a  man  ran  lightly  up  them  before  any  one 
had  had  a  chance  to  go  down.  He  went 
straight  to  Captain  Starr  and  I  saw  that 
fine  old  rugged  face  light  up  as  he 
gripped  his  hand.  From  where  I  stood 

[58] 


Unofficial  &ecretarp 


I  could  see  him  well  —  a  man  of  perhaps 
thirty-five,  tall,  straight,  and  slender. 
There  were  threads  of  gray  in  his  dark 
hair  and  he  was  clad  in  immaculate  white 
flannels  and  a  Panama  hat  which  would 
have  made  a  New  Yorker  turn  green 
with  envy.  Across  his  nose  rested  a  pair 
of  rimless  glasses.  The  ensemble  was 
perfect. 

I  felt  rather  than  saw  them  coming 
toward  me.  The  stranger  walked  with 
all  the  easy  grace  of  an  athlete.  Cap 
tain  Starr  spoke  my  name.  I  looked  at 
his  companion  and  something  ran  through 
me  like  an  electric  shock.  He  was  look 
ing  straight  into  my  eyesi,  and  —  well, 
Miladi,  I  have  n't  been  altogether  sanq 
since. 

As  in  a  dream  I  heard  Captain 
Starr  speak  his  name  —  Dr.  Thorne. 
As  in  a  dream  I  heard  the  latter  acknowl 
edge  the  introduction.  As  in  a  dream 
I  heard  him  state  the  reason  for  his 
presence.  The  Consul  had  business  in 
[59] 


<Ef)c  (Unofficial  Secretary 

Buenos  Aires  within  a  day  or  two.  I 
was  to  await  him  there  that  I  might 
have  his  company  up  to  Asuncion.  As  in 
a  dream  I  heard  the  Captain  say  that  he 
would  look  me  up  later  in  the  day.  As  in 
a  dream  I  walked  by  Dr.  Thome's  side 
down  the  steps  and  across  the  dock.  We 
turned  a  corner  and  lo !  —  Eighth  Won 
der  of  the  World  —  a  splendid  touring- 
car  of  the  vintage  of  1912.  I  was  seated 
in  it  and  Dr.  Thorne  was  at  the  wheel 
before  I  really  came  to. 

A  short  ride  up  the  Avenida  de  Mayo 
brought  us  to  the  hotel.  Neither  of  us 
said  anything  till  we  stopped  before  it.  I 
have  discovered  since  that  he  is  n't  given 
to  saying  much  at  any  time,  but  when  we 
arrived  at  the  hotel  he  put  me  quite  at 
ease  by  saying,  "  I  know  just  how  you 
feel  —  utterly  bewildered.  Felt  that  way 
myself  the  day  I  landed  in  Buenos  Aires. 
But  you  will  love  it  here  just  as  I  do  when 
you  have  become  accustomed  to  it.  I  am 
going  to  suggest  that  you  rest  during  the 
[60] 


Unofficial  &ecretarp 


day  while  it  is  warm.  Then  I  will  come 
this  afternoon  with  the  car  and  show  you 
the  city.  This  is  the  Paris  of  South 
America,  you  know." 

There  was  something  very  quieting 
about  his  voice  even  though  he  was  saying 
the  most  ordinary  things.  He  is  an  Amer 
ican,  of  course.  I  wonder  what  brought 
him  to  South  America? 

Except  for  you,  Miladi,  I  thought  I 
was  utterly  alone  in  the  world.  When  I 
started  for  this  far  country  I  thought  that 
a  great,  ice-bound  sea  separated  me  from 
all  the  past  —  that  I  was  coming  to  a 
strange  land  where  I  should  never  know 
again  the  "  ties  that  bind."  Now,  as  if 
by  a  miracle,  all  is  changed.  I  have 
found  a  world  of  sunshine  and  warmth 
and  beauty  and  palpitating  humanity.  I 
have  lived  too  much  in  the  past,  I  think, 
for  here  I  am  finding  the  present  fascin 
ating  and  alluring. 

Au  revo'ir,  Miladi.  As  they  say  on  the 
stage,  "  More  anon!  " 


i/ 


^Unofficial  &ecretarj> 


BUENOS  AIRES,  ARGENTINA,  S.  A. 

\T7HO  was  that  old  duffer  among  the 
Romans  (the  younger  Pliny,  was 
it  not?)  who  said,  "  Forgive  me,  friend, 
that  I  write  thee  so  long  a  letter.  I 
had  n't  time  to  write  a  short  one." 
C'est  moi,  n'est-ce-pas? 

I  spent  my  first  day  in  Buenos  Aires 
trying  to  sweep  the  cobwebs  from  my 
brain.  A  long  sleep  aided  materially  in 
the  process  and  when  I  awoke  after  a  four 
hours'  nap,  the  world  was  plumb  again. 
Life  was  once  more  in  tune.  I  lay  quietly 
for  a  while  and  had  it  out  with  myself, 
a  mental  summing  up,  as  it  were.  The 
result  is  that  I  am  more  content  than  I 
have  been  for  many  moons. 

First,  there  was  Captain  Starr.  The 
attraction  I  had  felt  toward  him  had  ex 
plained  itself.  He  loves  me  because  I 
am  my  mother's  daughter.  Therefore  I 
will  put  a  little  sunshine,  if  I  can,  into 
his  hitherto  clouded  life.  So  far,  so 
[62] 


<Efjc  (Unofficial  4s>ecretarp 

good.  Would  that  I  could  dispose  of  Dr. 
Thorne  as  easily! 

I  had  just  finished  dressing  when  his 
card  was  brought  up,  and  when  I  went 
down  to  the  reception  room  a  moment 
later,  he  was  standing  at  the  window  look 
ing  down  into  the  street.  His  Panama 
lay  on  the  table,  his  hands  were  in  his 
pockets,  and  he  was  whistling  softly  to 
himself.  I  had  a  chance  to  observe  him 
closely  without  his  knowledge.  He  is 
not  handsome.  He  is  more  than  that. 
He  has  a  high-bred  face,  fine  eyes,  and  a 
slender,  graceful  figure.  He  is  that  type 
of  man  whom  all  women  unconsciously 
reverence,  the  kind  of  a  man  into  whose 
hand  a  little  child  will  lay  its  own  in 
confidence. 

He  turned  suddenly  and  saw  me  and 
his  expression  changed.  He  took  in  my 
whole  appearance  from  head  to  foot  and 
once  more  I  was  filled  with  consternation 
for  fear  I  had  on  the  wrong  kind  of 
clothes.  You  see,  I  don't  know  yet  just 
[63] 


Unofficial  &ecretarp 


what  they  wear  down  here,  so  involun 
tarily  I  said, 

"Will  I  do?" 

I  had  no  sooner  spoken  than  my  con 
fusion  increased  for  the  light  died  out  of 
his  face  as  quickly  as  it  had  come  and  he 
answered,  a  little  shortly  I  thought, 

"  I  think  so." 

No  wonder  that  he  had  called  this  the 
Paris  of  South  America!  The  Avenida 
de  Mayo  down  which  we  rode  is  a  verit 
able  Parisian  boulevard.  There  are  the 
same  lamps,  the  same  rows  of  trees  on 
either  side,  newspaper  kiosks  —  every 
thing  is  here  except  the  boulevardlers. 
One  thing,  of  course,  is  essentially  dif 
ferent.  Whereas  in  Paris  one  hears  the 
light,  frivolous  French  chatter,  he  hears 
here,  instead,  the  old,  beautiful,  musical 
tongue  of  Spain. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon.     The  sun 

was  golden,  the  air  soft  and  balmy.     I 

think  every  one  of  the  million  and  more 

inhabitants   of   Buenos   Aires   must   have 

[64] 


Unofficial  ibecretarp 


been  out  driving,  for  an  interminable 
torrent  of  vehicles  covered  the  avenue 
in  both  directions  as  far  as  the  eye  could 
see.  I  have  since  learned  that  this  is  the 
time  to  see  not  the  city  but  the  people,  for 
every  day,  about  an  hour  before  sunset, 
all  Buenos  Aires  pours  into  the  streets. 

Dr.  Thorne  asked  me  suddenly  what  I 
knew  about  South  America.  With  all  due 
humility  I  confessed  that  my  knowledge 
was  limited.  I  confided  in  him  that  I 
thought  I  knew  something  about  it  before 
I  came,  but  that  I  had  changed  my  mind. 
"  You  see,"  I  said,  "  I  learned  it  out  of 
a  book!" 

He  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed. 
Then  all  at  once  his  reserve  fell  from  him. 
He  began  to  talk  most  charmingly  about 
everything  —  the  city,  the  people,  the 
difference  between  the  life  here  and  that 
of  any  other  place  in  the  world.  Indeed, 
I  had  already  begun  to  wonder  why 
it  is  that  we  of  fhe  States  have  so  ut 
terly  ignored  these  people,  these  Other 
[65] 


Unofficial  &ecr  etar.p 


Americans  as  some  one  has  fitly  called 
them.  How  little  we  know  of  them,  of 
their  ambitions,  their  problems,  what  their 
cities  are  like.  To  tell  the  truth,  I  don't 
know  just  what  I  expected  to  find  here. 
I  know  only  that  I  am  amazed  at  what  I 
find. 

Buenos  Aires,  the  capital  of  Argentina, 
is  four  centuries  old  —  yet  it  is  as  new  as 
Chicago.  The  hotel  where  I  am  staying 
is  just  such  as  you  will  find  in  New  York  — 
beautiful  rooms  to  sleep  in,  good  things 
to  eat,  well-trained  servants  to  serve, 
cabmen  who  know  where  you  want  to  go. 
The  streets  of  the  city  are  beau 
tifully  clean.  Everything,  that  is  the 
clubs,  banks,  hotels,  restaurants,  theatres, 
all  are  close  at  hand.  Everything  is 
compact  and  there  is  a  glitter  about  it 
all  which  is  to  be  seen  in  no  other  city 
that  I  know. 

I  am  beginning  to  realize  also  that 
what  we  do  know  at  home  about  South 
America  is  confined  to  those  seething, 
[66] 


Unofficial  &ecretar|> 


revolutionary  little  republics  of  the  north. 
So  I  became  deeply  interested  in  what  Dr. 
Thorne  was  telling  me.  He  said  that 
there  could  be  no  comparison  between 
Venezuela  and  Argentina  —  that  they  are 
as  little  alike  as  are  Maine  and  Texas; 
that  the  people  resemble  each  other  no 
more  than  those  of  Massachusetts  re 
semble  the  Virginians.  He  said,  further, 
that  no  one  could  realize  the  immensity  of 
this  country  until  he  came  and  saw  for 
himself;  that  from  Cartagena  in  the  Carib 
bean  Sea  to  Punta  Arenas  in  Patagonia  is 
as  far  as  it  is  from  the  tip  end  of  the  Flor 
ida  peninsula  to  the  North  Pole,  and  that 
there  are  half  a  million  square  miles  more 
in  this  country  than  there  are  in  all  North 
America. 

"  It  is  the  strangest  thing  to  me,"  he 
continued,  "  that  the  United  States  does 
not  see  the  magnificent  possibilities  here. 
The  large  commercial  houses,  the  banks 
of  England,  Germany,  France,  and  Spain 
have  branches  here.  But  the  North 
[67] 


^Inofficial  g^ecretarp 


Americans  sit  calmly  at  home  and  let  them 
capture  the  prize." 

I  did  not  think  it  strange  at  all  and  told 
him  so.  The  American  business  man  is 
money-mad.  He  wants  quick  results.  He 
is  not  content  to  wait  six  months  or  a 
year  for  his  returns  as  the  slower-going 
Europeans  are. 

'  Well,"  he  replied,  "  perhaps  you  are 
right.  But  the  American  commercial 
man  is  usually  quick  to  see  a  chance  to 
make  money.  He  is  losing  out  here,  no 
mistake  about  it." 

I  could  not  help  thinking  of  the  dif 
ference  between  the  people  of  these  two 
continents.  Perhaps  their  lack  of  under 
standing  of  each  other  is  due  largely  to 
that  difference.  Our  country  was  colon 
ized  by  men  who  came  seeking  liberty. 
They  cleared  away  the  forests,  built  their 
homes,  planted  their  fields,  made,  in  the 
end,  a  nation.  South  America  was  set 
tled  by  people  who  came  seeking  gold. 
They  found  on  this  continent  a  wonderful 
[68] 


<TIje  (Unofficial  ^>ccrr tarp 


people,  adapted  to  their  environment, 
capable  of  attaining  a  civilization  of  which 
they  themselves  never  dreamed.  And 
what  became  of  them  —  the  Incas  ?  They 
were  annihilated  and  all  their  achieve 
ments  perished  with  them. 

"  I  should  like  to  see  my  countrymen 
a  little  more  energetic,"  Dr.  Thorne  con 
cluded.  "  This  is  a  land  of  opportunity. 
He  who  hesitates  is  lost." 

It  will  take  more  than  one  day  to  see 
all  that  is  to  be  seen  here.  As  we  re 
turned  to  the  hotel  my  companion  showed 
me  the  Theatre  Colon,  the  finest  theatre 
in  this  hemisphere,  and  the  famous  Jockey 
Club.  We  rode  down  the  Avenue  of 
Palms,  through  the  botanical  and  zoolog 
ical  gardens,  around  the  race  course, 
through  the  Mercado  de  Pilar  which  is 
a  model  market,  and  finally  out  into  the 
beautiful  residential  suburbs.  It  was  like 
a  journey  to  fairyland. 

When  we  were  back  at  the  hotel  he 
said:  "There  are  many  other  things  to 

[69] 


^Unofficial 


see.      I    have    saved    the    best    for    next 

time.      I    hope    there    will    be    a    '  next 

time?'" 

'  Yes,  with  pleasure,   unless  —  " 
"Unless  what?" 

"  Unless  I  should  go  on  to  Asuncion." 
He  paused  a  moment  and  then  said, 
"Are  you  in  haste  to  leave  us?" 
In  haste  !     Miladi,  I  feel  as  though  I 

could  never  leave  this  place.     But  he  was 

waiting  for  an  answer,  so  I  said, 

"  Far  from  it.     I  think  I  should  like  to 

stay  here  always." 

Again  his   face   lighted  up  and   again 

the  light  died  away  as  soon  as  it  came, 

and  presently  he  said, 

"  Buenos  noches.     That  's  the  way  we 

say  it  down  here.     You  may  as  well  be 

gin    to    speak    Spanish    to-night    as    any 

time." 

"  True,"  I  replied.     "  Buenos  noches." 
I  found  Captain  Starr  on  the  balcony. 

Without  question  from  me  he  told  me  all 

he  knows  (and  it  is  all  that  any  one  here 
[70] 


Unofficial  &ecretarp 


knows)  about  Dr.  Thorne.  It  had  oc 
curred  to  me  as  we  were  returning  that 
during  all  our  conversation  he  had  said 
not  one  word  about  himself. 

It  seems  that  about  ten  years  ago  he 
suddenly  appeared  in  Buenos  Aires,  took 
a  little  house  in  one  of  the  quiet  streets 
and  let  it  be  known  that  he  was  an  Amer 
ican  physician.  The  better  class  of  peo 
ple  instantly  recognized  his  superior 
ability  and  before  long  he  had  all  that 
he  could  do.  He  was  then  quite  a  young 
man,  not  more  than  twenty-five  or  six, 
tall,  dark,  distingue,  but  he  had  then,  as 
now,  a  reserve,  a  self-repression,  a  sort  of 
settled  melancholy  which  no  one  has  ever 
been  able  to  penetrate.  With  him  came  a 
woman,  no  longer  young,  perhaps  sixty- 
five,  and  for  ten  years  they  have  lived 
their  own  lives  in  that  same  little  house. 
Professionally  Dr.  Thorne  has  become  a 
power  in  Buenos  Aires.  Of  his  personal 
affairs  no  one  knows  any  more  than  on  the 
day  he  came. 


Unofficial  &>ecretarp 


"  He  is  the  idol  of  Buenos  Aires," 
Captain  Starr  was  saying.  "  In  the  ten 
years  he  has  been  here  he  has  worked  in- 
defatigably  to  better  the  sanitary  condi 
tions  of  the  city.  He  saw  that  in  order 
to  be  effective  sanitation  must  be  con 
trolled  by  the  municipal  authorities,  and 
he  has  succeeded  in  establishing  here 
something  which  may  be  compared  to  the 
Marine-Hospital  Service  at  home,  or 
rather  what  that  service  would  be  if  har 
monized  with  local  boards  of  health. 
Once  the  small-pox  played  havoc.  Now 
vaccination  is  compulsory.  He  called  at 
tention  to  the  unsanitary  condition  of 
certain  parts  of  the  city  and  persuaded 
the  authorities  to  establish  a  municipal 
laboratory  and  to  purchase  the  machinery 
for  disinfection.  Just  now  he  is  very 
happy  over  a  number  of  ambulances 
which  are  ready  for  emergencies.  He 
has  kept  everlastingly  at  it  until  they  now 
have  the  best  system  of  sanitation  that 
I  know  of  anywhere.  Besides  all  this 
[72] 


Unofficial  &ecretarp 


he  has  his  hospital.    Did  he  tell  you  about 
that?" 

"  No,"  I  answered,  remembering  as  I 
did  so  what  he  had  said  about  saving  the 
best  for  next  time. 

"  Well,  I  am  going  to  let  him  tell  you 
that  himself,"  he  said  laughingly.  "  I 
can't  do  the  subject  justice."  Then  he 
continued  seriously,  "  I  don't  know  what 
it  was  that  brought  him  here  —  " 

"  A  woman  —  "I  ventured. 

"  No  !  "  he  said  positively,  so  emphat 
ically  that  I  almost  jumped  out  of  my 
chair.  "  That  is  the  one  thing  I  do  know 
about  the  whole  business.  It  was  not  a 
woman." 

I  made  no  more  remarks  upon  the  sub 
ject  I  can  assure  you,  Miladi,  and  at  last 
he  said,  "  Whatever  it  was,  it  is  none  of 
my  business.  He  is  the  finest  man  I 
know.  In  addition  to  all  else  that  he  has 
accomplished  he  had  found  the  sorest 
spot  in  all  South  America  and  is  doing 
what  he  can  to  effect  a  cure." 
[73] 


^Inofficial  &ecretarp 


"And  that?"  I  asked. 

"  He  will  tell  you  himself." 

It  grew  late  and  I  went  to  bed,  but 
not  to  sleep.  I  could  not  get  Dr.  Thorne 
out  of  my  mind.  He  is  different  from 
any  man  I  have  known  before.  There  is 
something  indescribable  about  him.  He 
has  magnetism.  He  has  vitality.  He  is 
gravely  sincere,  quietly  fearless.  He  has 
the  appearance  of  a  man  who  is  possessed 
of  a  quiet,  definite  purpose.  One  imagines 
that  argument  would  be  wasted  upon  him 
if  once  his  mind  were  made  up.  One  thing 
about  him  has  impressed  me  deeply.  No 
matter  how  animated  he  may  become,  no 
matter  how  much  his  face  lights  up,  his 
eyes  seem  not  to  smile.  He  wears  his  com 
posure  as  he  wears  his  coat,  is  a  man  of 
few  words,  but  when  he  does  speak  his 
voice  thrills  me  through.  If  he  asks  a 
question  his  never-smiling  eyes  demand 
the  truth. 

Buenos  noches,  Miladi.     I  will  practice 
my  long-neglected  Spanish  on  you. 
[74] 


^Unofficial  &ecretarp 

BUENOS  AIRES.    Next  day. 

T  AM  about  to  begin  the  last  lap  on 
my  journey,  Miladi.  The  Consul 
will  be  here  in  the  morning  and  in 
the  afternoon  the  Dom  Pedro  sails  for 
New  York.  To  tell  the  truth,  I  am  not 
sorry  to  go  on.  Once  more  I  am  pos 
sessed  with  a  desire  to  flee,  to  get  out  of 
sight.  If  I  could  run  to  the  edge  of  the 
earth  I  should  unhesitatingly  jump  off. 
Of  one  thing  I  am  certain.  Were  I  to 
stay  here  longer,  where  I  should  see  Dr. 
Thorne  daily,  I  should  rush  madly  to  my 
doom.  So  I  am  once  more  putting  into 
practice  my  favorite  maxim, 

He  who  fights  and  runs  away 
May  live  to  fight  another  day. 

You  know,  Miladi,  there  are  those 
women  who  will  fight  and  struggle  and 
sometimes  die  to  win  the  favor  of  a  man, 
but  I  am  not  one  of  them.  The  man  I 
love  must  fight  and  struggle  and  be  will 
ing  to  die  for  me.  Nothing  else  goes. 
[75] 


{Hnoffictal 


Whatever  it  was  that  has  made  Dr. 
Thorne  the  man  he  is,  I  am  convinced 
of  this.  He  has  put  Love  quite  outside 
of  his  life. 

Yesterday  morning  just  as  I  was  med 
itating  venturing  forth  on  a  tour  of  inves 
tigation  all  by  myself  his  card  was  brought 
to  me.  When  I  went  downstairs  he  said 
somewhat  hurriedly,  "  Will  you  come 
with  me  for  all  day?  I  should  like  to 
take  you  to  the  hospital  —  and  some 
other  places." 

I  don't  know  whether  I  said  I  would 
or  not,  but  if  I  did  n't  speak  I  must  have 
made  signs,  for  a  moment  later  we 
were  spinning  down  the  Avenida.  We 
passed  a  splendid  building  and  I  asked 
what  it  was.  He  stopped  the  car  and 
said  we  would  get  out,  and  I  want  to  tell 
you  right  here,  Miladi,  that  when  it 
comes  to  newspapers  and  newspaper 
buildings,  Buenos  Aires  leads  the  proces 
sion.  They  have  here  a  hundred  and 
eighty-nine  newspapers.  A  hundred  and 
[76] 


Unofficial  &ecretarp 


fifty-seven  of  them  are  published  in  Span 
ish,  fourteen  in  Italian.  There  are  two 
in  French,  six  in  English,  and  eight  in 
German.  The  largest  paper  in  this  part 
of  the  world  is  La  Prensa  and  we  stopped 
long  enough  to  go  through  the  beautiful 
building  where  it  is  published.  Other 
cities  would  do  well  to  pattern  after  it. 
The  paper  is  the  property  of  a  wealthy 
family  here  and  the  building  is  fitted  up 
like  a  club.  There  are  luxurious  apart 
ments  where  distinguished  guests  are 
asked  to  stop  while  visiting  here.  The 
proprietor  has  living  apartments  in  the 
building  which  he  uses  when  occasion  of 
fers.  The  reporters  have  a  grill-room. 
The  presses  and  equipment  are  the  finest 
to  be  had.  La  Prensa  gets  cable  news 
from  all  parts  of  the  world  and  when 
published  the  paper  looks  like  the  New 
York  Herald. 

Whenever  there    is   an   earthquake,   a 
tidal  wave,  a  conflagration  or  other  dis 
aster,  the  great  whistle  on  La  Prensa's 
[77] 


^Unofficial  &>ecretarp 


building  blows  and  all  the  country  within 
hearing  knows  that  something  has  hap 
pened.  On  the  night  of  the  earthquake 
in  San  Francisco,  the  skies  of  Buenos 
Aires  were  blood-red  from  a  great  light 
thrown  from  the  roof  of  this  newspaper 
building.  Nor  is  this  all.  If  you  are  in 
need  of  a  doctor  and  have  no  money,  you 
may  go  to  La  Prensa's  free  dispensary. 
In  addition  to  this,  you  may  use  her  li 
brary  free  of  charge.  You  may  learn  to 
speak  English  in  the  classes  maintained 
by  her  owners,  and  attend  lectures  and 
concerts  without  money  and  without  price. 

As  we  rode  along  Dr.  Thorne  called 
my  attention  to  an  advertisement  painted 
upon  the  side  of  a  large  building.     This 
is  what  it  said: 
Pilulas  Rosados  para  Pessoas  Pallidas. 

"That  isn't  Spanish,  is  it?"  I  asked. 

"  Not  exactly.     It  's  Portuguese  —  but 
surely  you  recognize  it?" 

I    took   another   look   and    suddenly   I 
saw    a    great    light.      Who    could    have 
[78] 


Unofficial  Secretary 


thought  that  one  would  meet  so  old  an 
acquaintance   so  far  from  home? 
Pink  Pills  for  Pale  People. 

Oh,  you  New  England!  Oh,  you 
United  States!  I  presume  that  on  the 
other  side  of  the  building  one  could  find 
Uneeda  Biscuit  and  The  Beer  That  Made 
Milwaukee  Famous! 

We  drew  up  before  another  building 
which  I  knew  must  be  the  hospital  al 
though  it  looked  less  like  one  than  any 
thing  I  ever  saw.  It  was  a  low,  rambling, 
one-story  affair  covering  about  half  a 
block.  All  the  South  American  cities  are 
laid  out  checker-board  fashion,  the  streets 
crossing  each  other  at  right  angles.  The 
inside  of  the  building  looks  less  like  a  hos 
pital  than  the  outside.  Everything  is  not 
immaculately  white  as  it  is  in  our  hos 
pitals.  There  were  brilliant  patches  of 
color  here  and  there  —  a  red  blanket,  a 
yellow  cover,  a  green  cushion.  The  Span 
ish  indulge  their  love  for  color  even  in  the 
face  of  sickness  and  death. 
[79] 


^Unofficial  Secretary 


My  companion  must  have  read  my 
thoughts  for  he  said  suddenly, 

"  It  is  n't  much,  I  grant  you.  I  try  to 
look  upon  it  as  only  temporary,  but  how 
I  have  had  to  fight  inch  by  inch,  step  by 
step,  to  get  even  this!  Surely,  before 
long  some  one  will  see  the  necessity  for 
a  thoroughly  equipped  hospital.  Just  now 
I  am  doing  as  the  theatrical  people  do 
when  they  get  stranded  on  the  road  — 
waiting  for  an  'angel.'  ' 

We  walked  along  a  long  corridor  till 
we  came  to  a  wing  of  the  building  apart 
from  the  others.  "  Come  in  here,"  he 
said.  "  This  is  what  I  want  you  to  see." 

I  followed  him  through  a  door,  and 
oh,  Miladi,  if  you  could  have  seen  the 
sight  that  met  my  eyes!  Row  after  row 
of  little  cots,  and  on  each  one  a  young 
mother  (they  looked  like  children  them 
selves)  and  her  baby.  How  the  little, 
pale,  oval  faces  lighted  up  when  they  saw 
the  doctor,  and  how  wonderingly  they 
looked  at  me  !  I  turned  to  ask  Dr.  Thorne 
[80] 


Unofficial 


a  question  but  it  died  on  my  lips  when  I 
saw  the  transformation  in  him.  Here  he 
was  himself.  All  his  self-repression  had 
fallen  from  him.  He  forgot  himself,  he 
forgot  me,  he  forgot  everything  except 
what  was  before  him.  He  went  from  one 
to  another,  speaking  words  of  encourage 
ment,  sometimes  stopping  to  raise  a  pil 
low  or  straighten  a  cover.  As  we  left 
the  room  he  stopped  to  speak  to  a  con 
valescent  sitting  by  the  window.  I  saw 
the  dark  eyes  fill  with  tears  as  she  replied 
to  his  questions  in  her  own  musical 
tongue.  Then  I  heard  him  tell  the  at 
tendant  that  she  was  not  to  be  discharged 
without  his  orders.  On  his  face,  there 
was  a  look  I  had  not  seen  there  before, 
yet  it  was  the  look  one  always  sees  in 
the  face  of  the  physician  whose  patient 
is  dear  to  him  and  whose  malady  threat 
ens  to  baffle  his  skill.  I  suppose  my 
thoughts  must  have  been  expressed  in  my 
face,  for  he  collected  himself  instantly 
and  said  as  if  in  apology, 
[81]  ' 


Unofficial  &ecretarp 


"  She  's  only  fifteen,  poor  child." 

We  turned  into  a  hallway  and  crossed 
to  another  large  room  which  we  entered. 
Miladi,  I  never  saw  so  many  babies  in 
one  place  in  all  my  life.  They  were  the 
deserted  little  ones,  fathers  and  mothers 
unknown,  dropped  by  night  at  the  hospi 
tal  doorway  —  and  this  is  the  sore  spot 
of  which  Captain  Starr  spoke  and  which 
Dr.  Thorne  is  giving  the  best  years  of 
his  life  to  remedy. 

We  went  out  by  the  rear  door  and  as 
we  passed  I  saw  some  queer,  basket-like 
arrangements  near  the  entrance  and  asked 
what  they  were.  He  hesitated  a  moment 
and  then  said: 

"  I  am  going  to  talk  frankly  with  you, 
Miss  Leigh.  You  have  been  brought  up 
to  see  life  as  it  should  be.  Here  you  will 
see  it  as  it  should  not  be.  Those  recep 
tacles  were  placed  at  the  entrances  by  my 
order.  Illegitimacy  is  the  curse  of  South 
America.  It  is  so  common  here,  deserted 
children  so  many,  that  it  makes  little  or 
[82] 


{Unofficial  &ecretarp 


no  impression  on  people.  The  babies 
left  in  the  night  at  the  hospital  doors  so 
often  died  of  exposure  that,  since  they  will 
leave  them,  I  have  had  a  place  provided 
for  them.  The  morals  of  this  country 
certainly  need  fumigating.  Believe  me, 
the  attendants  think  no  more  of  finding  a 
child  here  in  the  morning  than  you  would 
think  of  finding  a  stray  dog  or  cat  on  your 
back  porch  at  home." 

I  was  too  paralyzed  to  make  reply.  Be 
sides,  I  knew  he  had  more  to  say.  So  I 
waited  for  him  to  say  it. 

"  Sometimes  I  get  very  much  discour 
aged,"  he  went  on.  "  It  seems  so  hope 
less  a  task. 

"  For  one  thing,  it  is  impossible  to  get 
the  right  kind  of  nurses.  The  best  are 
those  who  have  come  to  me  because  of 
their  own  troubles  and  have  afterward 
stayed  as  nurses.  But  they  lack  some 
thing.  That  splendid  self-reliance  which 
characterizes  our  countrywomen  and 
makes  them  fearless  and  cool-headed  in 
[83] 


Unofficial  ;%>ecretarjt> 


moments  of  emergency  is  an  unknown 
quantity  here.  Then,  too,  there  is  the 
church.  It  is  so  different  from  the  Cath 
olic  Church  in  the  United  States.  There 
all  religions  meet  on  common  ground. 
Here  there  is  but  one  church.  Conse 
quently  its  power  is  greater  than  it  is  in 
our  country,  the  devotion  of  the  people 
much  stronger.  Loyalty  to  it  is  para 
mount  to  all  things  else  and  this  some 
times  leads  the  nurses  to  do  what  seem  to 
us  incomprehensible  things.  Will  you  be 
lieve  me  when  I  tell  you  that  the  most 
competent  nurse  I  have  left  the  hospital 
without  my  knowledge  and  went  to  service 
on  Good  Friday,  and  while  she  was  gone 
her  patient  died?  When  I  remonstrated 
with  her,  she  looked  at  me  in  astonish 
ment.  She  was  utterly  unconscious  of 
neglected  duty.  When  I  asked  her  if 
she  felt  that  it  was  right  to  leave  her 
patient  she  said,  '  But  it  is  Good  Friday. 
I  must  go  to  church.'  What  can  one 

[84] 


Unofficial 


do  under  such  circumstances?  If  I  ever 
get  hold  of  a  good,  North  American 
trained  nurse,  I'll  —  " 

"  Marry  her,"  I  broke  in. 

He  did  not  take  to  the  idea  very  kindly, 
although  he  laughed.  "  No,"  he  said. 
"  I  should  not  do  that.  But  if  ever  I 
learn  of  the  presence  of  one  in  Buenos 
Aires  I  shall  endeavor  to  attach  her  to  the 
hospital  if  I  have  to  use  a  ball  and  chain." 
Then  he  returned  to  the  subject. 

"  I  have  succeeded  in  accomplishing  one 
thing.  I  have  enlisted  the  municipal  au 
thorities.  They  will  help  as  much  as  they 
dare,  and  perhaps  another  generation  may 
see  better  conditions,  better  times.  Did 
you  notice  —  you  must  have  done  so  — 
the  extreme  youth  of  those  little  mothers? 
The  majority  of  them  are  between  fifteen 
and  twenty,  yet  they  look  like  sad  little 
matrons  of  thirty-five.  If  only  there  were 
some  one  to  teach  them  —  to  teach  them 
the  things  they  ought  to  know!  " 

Did  I  say  he  was  a  man  of  few  words? 
[85] 


{Unofficial  &ecretarp 


Well,  he  is  until  he  begins  to  talk  about 
his  hospital.  No  wonder  Captain  Starr 
said  he  couldn't  do  the  subject  justice. 
I  knew  he  had  more  to  say  so  I  kept  dis 
creetly  quiet.  Being  able  to  keep  still  at 
the  right  moment  is  a  fortune  in  itself.  I 
have  always  looked  upon  it  as  my  one 
accomplishment. 

"  You  know,  Miss  Leigh,"  Dr.  Thorne 
was  saying,  "  it  is  to  the  women  we  must 
look  for  help.  There  is  no  need  to  ap 
peal  to  the  men.  It  is  here  just  as  it  is 
everywhere  else,  only  worse.  The  Scarlet 
Letter  is  for  women  only.  If  all  the  men 
who  deserved  it  had  to  wear  it,  a  large 
percentage  of  the  masculine  population  of 
South  America  would  resemble  a  land 
scape  by  Corot." 

I  should  have  laughed  except  that  he 
spoke  so  grimly  that  I  dared  not. 

We  had  been  riding  through  the  lovely 
streets  while  he  talked  and  presently  he 
turned  a  corner  and  stopped  before  a 
little  house. 

[86] 


^Unofficial  &ecretarp 


"  This  is  where  I  live,"  he  said  briefly. 
"  Will  you  come  in?  " 

He  led  the  way  up  the  path  and  into 
the  most  charming  little  house  I  have  ever 
seen.  The  walls  are  made  of  adobe.  It 
is  built,  as  most  of  the  South  American 
houses  are,  after  the  fashion  of  a  bunga 
low,  one  story,  but  built  around  a  court. 
The  interior  was  cool  and  inviting  and 
through  the  window  I  had  a  glimpse  of 
the  loveliest  garden,  full  of  great,  feathery, 
green  ferns,  tall  enough  for  me  to  stand 
under,  and  gorgeous,  unfamiliar  plants 
and  flowers.  There  is  a  little  fountain  in 
the  centre,  the  waters  of  which  fall  back 
musically  into  the  basin.  It  is  such  a 
garden  as  I  have  always  dreamed  of  but 
have  never  seen  before. 

He  pushed  aside  a  curtain  and  we  en 
tered  a  room  where  sat  a  dear  old  lady  — 
a  quaint  little  figure,  as  fragile  in  ap 
pearance  as  a  piece  of  Sevres  or  Dresden 
china.  She  must  be  seventy-five,  but  she 
is  as  brisk  and  cheery  as  many  another 
[87] 


(Unofficial  &>ecrrtart> 


who  has  seen  but  half  her  years.  Her 
gray  hair  was  parted  simply  and  waved 
about  her  ears.  She  was  dressed  in  soft, 
lustreless  black  silk  with  a  lace  fichu  about 
her  throat.  In  her  hands  she  held  a  piece 
of  fine  needlework.  She  seemed  very 
small  in  comparison  with  Dr.  Thome's 
splendid  height  as  she  rose  from  her  low 
chair  to  greet  us. 

"  Aunt  Val,"  he  said,  "  I  have  brought 
you  some  one  you  have  wished  for  years 
to  see-" 

She  looked  at  him  questioningly,  and 
he  continued,  "  —  a  real  North  American 
girl." 

"  Not  really!  "  she  said  as  she  dropped 
her  work  and  took  my  hands  in  both  her 
own.  "  How  glad  I  am  !  It  has  been  so 
long  since  I  have  seen  one." 

She  touched  a  gong  which  hung  in 
the  doorway  and  a  thoroughly  Spanish 
servant  appeared. 

"  Mercedes,"  she  said,  u  bring  tea  at 
once,  and  we  will  have  it  in  the  garden." 
[88] 


(Unofficial  Secretary 


"Tea!"  I  said,  laughing.  "I  knew 
you  were  English." 

'  Yes,  I  was  born  in  England,  but  I 
went  to  the  States  when  I  was  quite  a 
child.  I  have  always  felt  American,  but 
'  what  's  bred  in  the  bone,'  you  know  —  . 
I  still  like  my  tea." 

While  she  talked  my  eyes  took  in  the 
room  where  we  stood.  The  walls  were 
stained  a  soft,  dull  green.  There  was  a 
deep-toned  Persian  rug  on  the  floor.  No 
curtains  were  at  the  windows  which  were 
small  and  leaded.  There  were  shelves 
of  books  on  two  sides  of  the  room  and 
pictures,  not  many,  but  good,  on  the  walls. 
There  was  a  fine  reproduction  of  Hol 
bein's  Madonna  and  one  of  the  Crucifix 
ion  by  Albrecht  Diirer,  and  over  a  desk 
which  sat  flatly  against  the  wall  a  magni 
ficent  head  of  Dante  which  chained  me  to 
the  spot.  Dr.  Thorne  saw  my  absorption 
and  said, 

"  I  picked  that  up  in  Rome  a  good  many 
years  ago.     Do  you  like  it?" 
[89] 


<Efjc  (Unofficial  £5>ecretart> 

"  Like  it!  "  I  exclaimed.  "  I  love  it! 
I  love  Dante.  I  love  Beatrice.  I  love 
Florence.  I  love  Italy.  I  love  the  Com 
edy  Divine.  I  love  everything  else  Dante 
ever  said  or  wrote, —  "  and  being  full  of 
the  subject  I  began  to  quote  my  own  little 
sonnet  on  Dante: 


Thoughtful   of   mien,  with  measured   step   and 

slow, 

There  walked  a  man  in  Florence,  long  ago. 
Smileless  his  face  as  bronze,  downcast  his  eyes; 
He  saw  not  the  green  fields,  the  azure  skies, 
The  cooing,  chattering  doves  upon  the  stone, 
But  walked  as  he  had  ever  walked  —  alone, 
Stifling  within  his  lonely  heart  a  cry 
As  groups  of  laughing  children  passed  him  by. 

"  Go  on,"  he  said.     "  It  takes  fourteen 
lines  to  make  a  sonnet." 

One  day  upon  the  bridge,  from  out  the  throng 
A  woman  smiled  on  Dante,  and  the  Song 
Of  Songs,  the  greatest  that  the  world 
Has  known,  to  all  mankind  was  hurled 
The  sorrows  of  great  lovers  to  beguile. 
Ah,  wondrous  magic  of  a  woman's  smile! 
[90] 


Unofficial 


"  Where  did  you  get  that?  "  he  asked 
eagerly. 

"  Wrote  it." 

"Wrote  it!     Really?" 

"Surely.     Why  not?" 

I  was  n't  prepared  for  what  was  com 
ing.  He  turned  upon  me  with  a  glance 
which  would  have  put  the  Ancient  Mari 
ner  out  of  business  and  said  fiercely: 

"  Tell  me  —  what  are  you  doing  in 
South  America  ?  Why  did  n't  you  stay 
at  home  where  there  is  an  opportunity  for 
a  woman  ?  Why  did  n't  you  stay  there 
and  do  things  —  write  things  ?  Why 
did  n't  you  stay  there  and  marry  some 
good  man  instead  of  coming  away  down 
here?" 

I  was  so  overpowered  by  the  onslaught 
that  I  paused  to  get  my  breath.  I  sup 
pose  I  might  have  replied  to  the  last  ques 
tion  by  assuring  him  that  the  nice  men 
were  already  married,  but  it  did  not  occur 
to  me  till  too  late.  All  of  a  sudden,  how 
ever,  I  had  a  brilliant  inspiration.  I 
[91} 


Unofficial 


thought  of  John  Alden  and  Priscilla,  so 
I  smiled  sweetly  at  him  and  said, 

"Why  didn't  you?" 

Mercedes  came  to  tell  us  that  tea  was 
served  in  the  garden.  That  was  all  that 
saved  my  life. 

Dr.  Thorne  had  patients  to  visit,  so  I 
spent  the  late  afternoon  with  "  Aunt  Val," 
as  he  calls  her,  in  that  quaint  and  lovely 
garden.  The  sun  went  down  and  it  was 
twilight  when  he  returned.  Meanwhile 
she  had  told  me  something  of  her  life. 
Her  parents  had  gone  from  England  to 
the  United  States  when  she  was  about  ten 
years  old.  No,  she  had  never  married. 
Her  real  name  was  Valeria  —  Valeria 
Rexford,  but  she  had  always  been  "  Aunt 
Val."  Dr.  Thorne  was  her  sister's  child, 
but  she  had  had  him  always.  His  mother 
had  died  when  he  was  born.  He  was  her 
boy.  Sometimes  she  calls  him  affection 
ately  "  my  son." 

There  was  a  touch  of  sadness  in  all  she 
said  except  when  she  spoke  of  him.  She 
[92] 


{Unofficial  g>ecretarp 


told  what  he  had  accomplished,  how  he 
had  worked  first  to  establish  and  then  to 
maintain  the  hospital.  "  He  has  not  taken 
a  vacation  for  five  years,"  she  said.  u  All 
the  money  went  into  the  hospital  —  but 
then,"  she  said  with  a  little  sigh,  "  every 
thing  will  be  all  right.  Everything  al 
ways  is  all  right  if  we  only  think  so.  If 
it  is  n't  —  get  to  work  and  make  it  so." 

It  was  time  to  go.  Aunt  Val  kissed 
me  and  said,  "  If  you  get  lonely  in  Para 
guay  come  back  to  us."  We  got  into 
the  car  and  neither  of  us  said  anything 
as  we  returned  to  the  hotel.  I  went  to 
bed  and  in  my  dreams  I  saw  again  that 
restful  house,  the  quiet  garden,  every 
thing  in  perfect  harmony,  not  a  discord 
ant  note  anywhere.  I  saw  Aunt  Val  in 
her  soft  gown  and  white  lace  fichu.  And  I 
saw  him  in  his  own  environment  where  it 
was  easier  to  understand  him. 

Have  you  not  known  those  people, 
Miladi,  who  find  it  of  all  things  the  most 
difficult  to  express  what  they  feel?  —  to 
[93] 


Unofficial 


put  into  words  their  friendship  or  affec 
tion?  I  think  Dr.  Thome  is  one  of  these 
men.  To  know  him  a  little  is  not  to 
know  him  at  all.  To  know  him  well  — 
ah,  Miladi,  to  know  him  well  — 

No,  I  am  not  sorry  to  move  on.  Who 
would  knowingly  plant  within  himself  the 
seeds  of  some  beautiful  flower,  realizing 
that  later  he  would  have  to  destroy  its 
fragrance  with  his  own  hands  and  tear  up 
the  plant  by  the  roots? 

Paraguay  for  me,  Miladi.  I  shall  write 
you  next  from  there. 

THE  CONSULAR  RESIDENCE, 

Asuncion,  Paraguay. 

T  F  after  I  am  dead,  Miladi,  you  should 
wish  as  my  sole  surviving  relative  to 
erect  a  monument  to  my  memory  you  have 
my  permission  to  make  use  of  this  in 
scription  : 

The  moving  finger  writes  and  having  writ 
Moves  on! 

[94] 


Unofficial 


How  many  letters  I  have  written  you 
since  I  left  Washington,  but  never  mind! 
That  is  the  penalty  you  pay  for  being  one 
of  those  adorable  creatures  who  have  the 
power  (a  rare  gift)  to  read  not  only  the 
lines  themselves  but  all  that  lies  between 
them. 

I  have  been  at  the  Consulate  two  weeks. 
It  is  lovely  here.  I  like  it. 

The  morning  after  I  wrote  you  last,  Mr. 
Holt  arrived  —  ah,  but  he  was  good  to 
look  at,  Miladi  !  —  and  in  the  afternoon 
we  all  went  down  to  the  dock  to  see  the 
Dom  Pedro  sail.  All  the  morning  Captain 
Starr  had  been  my  shadow,  following  me 
about  wherever  I  went  and  I  knew  that  he 
was  leaving  me  reluctantly.  At  last,  how 
ever,  he  went  off  for  a  walk  with  Mr. 
Holt,  and  when  he  returned  he  had  shaken 
off  his  depression,  whatever  it  was.  We 
all  had  luncheon  together,  by  all  I  mean 
that  Dr.  Thorne  had  joined  us.  After 
ward  he  took  us  in  the  car  to  the  dock. 

I  can  not  imagine  where  the  River  of 
[95] 


^Unofficial 


Silver  got  its  name.  It  is  anything  but 
silver  in  appearance.  It  is  as  tawny  as 
the  Tiber,  and  sometimes  when  the  wind 
blows  from  the  wrong  direction  it  behaves 
very  badly.  The  boats  can  not  sail  but 
must  lie  quietly  and  wait  for  the  breeze 
to  change,  just  as  in  some  other  localities 
they  have  to  wait  for  the  tide.  But  the 
wind  was  blowing  the  right  way  that  day 
and  after  some  very  brief  good-byes  Cap 
tain  Starr  went  on  board.  Presently  we 
saw  him  in  his  white  uniform  upon  the 
bridge.  He  lifted  his  cap  to  us,  and  in  a 
moment  more  the  Dom  Pedro  began  to 
pull  away.  I  could  not  help  thinking  of 
what  Dr.  Thorne  had  told  me  about  the 
lack  of  interest  the  United  States  has  in 
this  country  as  I  looked  about  the  harbor. 
Forty  vessels  lay  at  anchor  there,  flying 
the  flags  of  almost  every  country  on  the 
face  of  the  earth.  Only  the  Dom  Pedro 
wore  the  Stars  and  Stripes. 

We  had  still  two  hours  to  wait  for  the 
boat  which  was  to  bring  us  here.     Mr. 
[96] 


{Unofficial  &ecretarp 


Holt  went  to  attend  to  the  business  which 
had  brought  him  to  Buenos  Aires  and  I 
went  to  ride  again  with  Dr.  Thorne.  He 
was  mum  as  an  oyster  every  inch  of  the 
way,  Miladi,  and  I  was  not  sorry.  I  was 
a  little  short  on  talk  myself. 

The  man  who  does  n't  talk  when  he  has 
nothing  to  say  always  makes  a  great  hit 
with  me.  The  things  we  feel  most  deeply 
are  the  things  we  can  not  put  into 
words.  Alas,  how  many  'put  into  words 
the  things  they  do  not  and  can  not  feel! 
If  he  chooses  one  may  share  his  joys  with 
the  whole  world,  but  not  his  griefs  —  ah, 
no.  These  he  coaxes  down  into  the  deep 
est,  darkest  corner  of  his  inner  dungeon 
and  tries  to  forget  they  are  there. 

Buenos  Aires  is  one  perpetual  surprise 
party,  Miladi.  We  rode  out  to  the  Jockey 
Club  where  the  races  were  being  held.  It 
was  not  a  gala  day  at  all  —  just  one  of  the 
ordinary  Thursday  afternoon  events  — 
but  such  crowds  of  people  as  were  there  ! 
Such  good-looking,  well-dressed  men,  such 
[97] 


Unofficial  &ecretarp 


exquisitely  gowned,  beautiful  women! 
Paris  could  n't  beat  it.  As  we  came  back 
the  Avenida  Alvear  was  thronged  with  mo 
tor  cars  and  handsome  carriages.  I  have 
observed  here  one  thing  which  pleases  me. 
The  people  have  their  motor  cars,  it  is 
true,  but  our  old  friend,  the  horse,  is  not 
passe.  They  have  also  their  carriages. 

It  was  not  till  we  got  back  to  the  dock 
that  my  companion  unbent.  Mr.  Holt  was 
on  the  pier,  and  just  before  we  left  the  car, 
Dr.  Thorne  turned  to  me  and  said, 

"  Shall  I  not  see  you  again  in  Buenos 
Aires  some  day,  Miss  Leigh?  I  hope  so." 

I  presume  I  said  something  in  reply, 
Miladi,  but  I  could  n't  tell  you  now  what 
it  was.  He  saw  us  on  board,  then  ran 
down  the  steps,  got  into  his  car  and  drove 
furiously  around  the  corner.  I  felt  like 
jumping  overboard. 

I  need  not  tell  you,  however,  (for  you 

know  him  as  well  as  I  do)  that  it  would  n't 

be  possible  for  one  to  be  gloomy  long  in 

the  presence  of  Mr.  Holt.    He  is  just  the 

[98] 


{Unofficial  ^>r  crctarp 


same  as  he  used  to  be  when  he  visited  us 
in  Washington.  There  is  always  "  some 
thing  doing  "  when  he  is  around.  The  air 
becomes  charged  with  electricity.  He 
gathered  me  into  his  arms  for  a  minute 
when  he  came  down  to  Buenos  Aires  and 
looked  volumes,  but  he  has  not  mentioned 
my  father  and  mother,  our  broken  home, 
my  own  sorrows,  or  anything  else  con 
nected  with  the  old  life.  Evidently  he  has 
no  intention  of  doing  so  and  I  am  glad 
of  it. 

When  I  awoke  next  morning  I  felt 
again  the  charm  of  this  lovely  land,  its 
strange  unfamiliarity.  The  trees  and  sky 
and  water  —  all  seemed  unlike  those  of 
any  other  country  I  had  seen.  The  land 
itself  was  different.  In  a  few  months  the 
railroad  will  be  completed  and  then  a  run 
down  to  Buenos  Aires  will  be  compara 
tively  a  simple  matter.  Now  it  takes  a 
week  to  come  up  to  Asuncion,  but  who 
would  exchange  boat  and  river  in  the  open 
for  berth  and  smoke  in  a  sleeper? 
[99] 


Unofficial 


I  soon  found  that  as  in  our  own  Cali 
fornia  the  distances  are  deceptive.  The 
mountains  covered  with  dense  forests  to 
the  summit  look  quite  near.  One  fancies 
that  he  could  reach  them  in  an  hour,  but 
should  he  ride  all  day  he  would  find  them 
just  as  far  away  as  ever.  Day  after  day, 
as  we  sailed  up  the  river,  we  saw  on  the 
banks  fields  of  bananas,  cotton,  cassava, 
tobacco,  and  hundreds  of  orange  trees 
laden  with  golden  fruit.  Mr.  Holt  told 
me,  however,  that  these  were  the  wild 
orange  trees  —  that  they  grow  in  great 
abundance.  But  the  fruit  is  bitter  and 
thousands  of  the  oranges  that  we  saw 
lay  rotting  on  the  ground,  unheeded  save 
by  the  parrots.  They,  it  seems,  are  very 
fond  of  the  seeds.  They  cut  open  the 
rind  with  their  curved  beaks  and  very 
deftly  extract  the  kernel,  the  only  part 
they  will  eat. 

We  were  near  enough  the  shore  in  places 
to  see  the  wattle-and-daub  cottages  of  the 
natives,  and  before  I  reached  Asuncion 


{Unofficial  &ecretarp 


Miladi,  I  came  to  the  conclusion  that  these 
are  a  happy,  contented  people.  Poor  as 
they  are  they  have  few  wants.  They  live 
freer,  healthier,  a  thousand  times  happier 
lives  than  do  the  poor  in  our  great  cities. 
They  know  not  what  it  is  to  suffer  from 
hunger  or  cold.  They  are  courteous,  hos 
pitable,  friendly,  and  the  little  copper- 
colored  children,  naked  and  unashamed, 
eye  you  curiously. 

One  afternoon  about  a  week  after  we 
sailed  from  Buenos  Aires  I  sat  in  a  shady 
corner,  my  attention  divided  between  the 
ever-changing  shore  and  Mr.  Holt,  who 
was  walking  up  and  down  the  deck  finish 
ing  his  cigar.  Occasionally  he  tossed  a 
remark  in  my  direction  as  he  passed  and 
as  I  watched  him  I  could  not  help  envying 
him  his  magnificent  poise.  Suddenly  I 
found  myself  thinking  of  that  terrible  night 
about  six  years  ago  —  a  night  which  whit 
ened  his  hair  and  broke  his  heart  but  from 
which  he  issued  forth  unconquered.  All 
Washington  was  horrified  when  it  became 
[101] 


known  that  Mr.  Holt's  splendid  son,  just 
twenty-one,  had  lost  his  life  the  night  be 
fore  in  a  frantic  and  unsuccessful  effort  to 
save  his  sister  when  a  sputtering  candle  let 
fall  a  drop  of  burning  wax  upon  her  filmy 
ball  gown  and  set  it  all  ablaze.  Father  and 
I  hastened  over  to  them  as  soon  as  we 
heard  of  it,  and  I  can  see  them  yet  —  those 
two  men.  For  a  moment  both  were  speech 
less.  Then  Mr.  Holt  burst  forth: 

"  It  might  have  been  worse.  Leigh,  it 
would  have  been  worse  —  would  n't  it?  — 
if  he  had  n't  tried!  " 

Poor  Mr.  Holt!  He  could  meet  his 
sorrow,  could  look  it  squarely  in  the  face 
if  he  had  to,  but  he  could  not  have  borne 
it  if  the  boy  in  that  last  hour  had  disap 
pointed  him.  Since  that  day  I  have  never 
heard  him  speak  of  his  children.  Reso 
lutely  he  put  his  own  grief  behind  him  that 
he  might  the  better  help  the  mother  bear 
hers.  One  never  gets  at  the  real  depths 
of  Mr.  Holt's  character  unless  one  hears 
him  speak  of  his  wife. 
[102] 


Unofficial 


I  had  been  wishing  that  he  would  say 
something  concerning  the  work  at  the 
Consulate,  so  I  was  rather  glad  when  he 
ceased  his  walk  and  sat  down  near  me. 

"  Shall  we  have  a  little  talk  about  our 
plans,  Virginia?  "  he  asked.  "  This  is  as 
good  a  time  as  any." 

I  waited,  and  presently  he  went  on 
with  a  little  laugh,  "  You  may  think  I 
have  lured  you  down  here  under  false 
pretences." 

"Why?" 

"  Well,  it  is  n't  so  much  the  work  to  be 
done,  although  your  knowledge  of  the 
languages  will  be  a  great  help  to  me  there, 
but,  you  see,  Virginia,  —  there  is  Mrs. 
Holt  —  " 

"Yes?" 

"  She  is  brave.  She  tries  to  be  cheerful, 
but  after  all,  life  away  from  one's  own 
country,  however  interesting,  is  exile.  And 
so  I  thought  —  " 

"  Of  course.     I  understand." 

"  Every  day  you  make  less  tedious  for 
[103] 


ZHnofftctal  &ecretarp 


her,  Virginia,  will  be  a  day  I  shall  not 
forget.  She  is  all  I  have,  you  know.  As 
for  the  things  to  be  done  at  the  office  — 
there  are  Armstrong  and  Farnsworth. 
Armstrong,  you  know,  is  the  official 
secretary." 

"  I  see,"  I  said,  and  because  he  had 
grown  serious  I  spoke  lightly.  "  I  am  to 
be  the  wwofficial  secretary." 

"  Exactly,"  he  replied,  laughing.  "  You 
could  n't  have  put  it  better." 

Late  the  next  afternoon  we  reached 
Asuncion.  I  had  long  since  gotten  past 
the  place  where  anything  I  saw  astonished 
me.  I  stepped  into  a  waiting  automobile 
with  the  utmost  nonchalance.  Had  it  been 
a  wheelbarrow  I  think  it  would  have  been 
all  the  same  to  me. 

Mr.  Holt  is  quite  a  personage  in  Asun 
cion.  Every  one  calls  him  "  El  Senor  Con 
sul,"  and  from  the  way  they  say  it,  I  take 
it  that  he  has  "  made  good."  The  Con 
sulate,  that  is  the  Government  office,  is 
in  a  building  almost  adjoining  our  little 


Unofficial 


house.  The  latter  is  perfectly  delightful 
and  evidently  dates  from  the  very  early 
days. 

La  Senora  Consul  (otherwise  Mrs. 
Holt)  is  as  pretty  and  as  charming  as 
ever.  She  says  that  the  little  house  looked 
so  dilapidated  that  the  Consul  protested 
when  she  wished  to  take  it,  but  you  should 
see  it  now!  It  is  restful  and  pleasing, 
far  more  so  than  are  the  so-called  aesthetic 
residences  we  see  at  home.  The  walls  are 
made  of  adobe,  and  it,  too,  is  built  about 
a  patio  (inner  court)  as  nearly  all  the 
houses  down  here  are.  The  roof  is  flat 
like  those  on  the  houses  you  see  in  the 
Far  East.  The  rooms  all  open  into  the 
patio  and  into  each  other.  The  only  dif 
ference  between  this  and  the  other  houses 
is  that  ours  is  two-story.  Most  of  the 
Paraguayan  homes  have  but  one  floor. 
There  is  no  need  of  a  fire  department  here. 
You  can  always  jump  out  of  the  window. 

All  the  houses  have  deep  eaves,  and 
from  them  slender  tubes  of  hardwood 
[105] 


Unofficial 


project  a  foot  or  two  to  carry  off  the  rain. 
They  do  carry  it  off  with  a  vengeance. 
Mrs.  Holt  says  that  in  the  rainy  season 
they  spout  like  a  young  Niagara  upon 
the  unsuspecting  passer-by.  The  most 
fascinating  thing  to  me  about  the  whole 
place,  though,  is  a  great  door  of  solid 
wood,  studded  with  wrought-iron  nails. 
It  opens  into  a  dark  passage  leading  to 
the  second  floor.  In  the  door  is  a  spy-hole 
and  two  smaller  openings  through  which 
one  could  fire  should  an  enemy  venture 
an  attack.  The  door  looks  as  if  it  might 
be  older  than  the  rest  of  the  house  and 
was  perhaps  brought  here  from  some  other 
part  of  the  country.  My  own  little  room 
is  as  pleasant  as  I  could  wish  although 
quite  different  from  any  I  have  ever  had 
elsewhere.  La  Sefiora  Consul  assured  me 
that  I  should  have  a  bed  if  I  preferred  it 
although  none  of  the  rest  of  them  have. 
Instead,  wide,  roomy,  beautiful,  brilliantly 
colored  hammocks  with  long  lace  fringes 
swing  in  every  room  except  in  Mr.  Holt's 
[106] 


Unofficial  g>ecrctarj> 


den.  There  a  broad  and  unmistakably 
American  leather  couch  holds  forth  in 
solitary  grandeur.  The  chairs  and  tables 
all  over  the  house  are  as  solid  as  the  Rock 
of  Gibraltar  and  such  a  thing  as  a  rocking- 
chair  is  unknown. 

We  have  a  garden  also,  but  —  .  There 
is  only  one  garden  in  my  little  world, 
Miladi,  and  it  is  in  Buenos  Aires.  Still, 
as  gardens  go,  this  one  is  n't  so  bad.  It, 
too,  is  riotous  with  ferns,  palms,  castor- 
oil  plants,  and  wild  indigo,  and  at  the  back 
is  a  row  of  orange  trees.  At  night  when 
we  look  out  into  it  the  trees  are  alive  with 
fireflies.  They  dart  in  and  out  and 
through  it  like  myriad  miniature  butter 
flies  dipped  in  phosphorus. 

El  Senor  Consul  and  Mrs.  Holt  begged 
that  I  would  stay  and  live  with  them  en 
famille.  I  remembered  what  Mr.  Holt 
had  said  and  when  he  laughingly  assured 
me  again  that  he  would  double  my  salary 
if  I  would  keep  Mrs.  Holt  from  being 
homesick,  I  stayed,  and  have  found  it 
[  107] 


Unofficial  £>ccretarp 


delightful.  Monday  I  went  to  the  Con 
sulate  where  I  made  the  acquaintance  of 
the  Head  Secretary,  Mr.  Nelson  Arm 
strong,  and  of  the  Under  Secretary,  Mr. 
Richard  Farnsworth  (who  by  the  way,  is 
a  Washington  man)  and  last,  by  no  means 
least,  of  Pasquale.  I  don't  know  just  what 
title  would  be  given  to  the  position  occu 
pied  by  Pasquale.  If  this  were  a  news 
paper  office  he  would  doubtless  be  known 
as  the  "  printer's  devil."  Anyway,  he  is  a 
handsome  lad  of  about  seventeen,  with 
large,  soulful,  Spanish  eyes  and  a  beautiful 
olive  complexion.  He  is  uniformly  good- 
natured,  and  they  tell  me  that  wherever 
the  female  population  of  Asuncion  congre 
gates,  there  you  will  find  Pasquale. 

My  work  at  the  office  is  neither  onerous 
nor  unpleasant.  It  consists  largely  in  trans 
lating  the  numerous  letters  in  many  lan 
guages  which  come  daily  to  the  Consul.  I 
slipped  into  my  place  without  the  slightest 
difficulty  and  feel  as  though  I  had  been 
here  always. 

[108] 


Unofficial  &ecretarp 


Au  revoir,  Miladi.  There  are  enough 
interesting  things  in  this  old  town  to  fill 
a  book,  but  I  shall  have  to  leave  them  till 
next  time. 

ASUNCION,  PARAGUAY,  S.  A. 

HRISTMAS  Day  in  Paraguay  I  It  is 
hardly  possible  to  persuade  myself 
that  it  is  so,  Miladi,  for,  as  you  know, 
December  with  us  comes  in  summer-time 
and  is  the  month  which  corresponds  to 
June  on  the  northern  side  of  the  Equator. 
The  day  has  been  truly  delightful,  neither 
hot  nor  cold,  but  like  a  fine  September 
afternoon  at  home.  They  tell  me,  though, 
that  it  is  not  often  that  we  have  such  days. 
Just  now  we  should  be  prepared  for  almost 
tropical  heat.  It  is  warmer  in  Paraguay 
than  anywhere  in  the  United  States  unless 
perhaps  at  Key  West.  Even  in  Florida, 
though,  the  frost  sometimes  blights  the 
oranges,  while  here  such  a  thing  is  not 
known. 

[  109] 


Unofficial 


Shortly  after  La  Senora  Consul  came 
down  here  she  sent  back  to  Washington 
for  some  rose  bushes.  It  was  only  an  ex 
periment,  but  it  has  proved  a  huge  success. 
The  American  Beauties  are  as  high  as  the 
house  and  a  perfect  mass  of  bloom! 
Gorgeous  butterflies  flutter  everywhere 
and  all  out-of-doors  is  full  of  birds  — 
birds  of  every  kind,  from  the  tiny  yellow 
ones  which  look  in  color  like  the  canaries 
but  are  in  form  like  the  humming-birds, 
to  the  green-and-scarlet  parrots  which 
chatter  and  scream  above  our  heads. 
No,  it  does  n't  seem  much  like  Christmas, 
Miladi,  although  we  had  a  Christmas  tree 
and  tried  not  to  forget  that  it  was  the 
Birthday  of  the  King. 

When  I  went  down  to  breakfast  I  found 
a  package  at  my  place,  and  oh,  joy!  — 
letters  from  you,  Miladi, —  six  weeks  old, 
it  is  true,  but  that  made  no  difference. 
Have  I  not  said  that  I  have  an  abiding 
fondness  for  things  that  are  old?  The 

[no] 


^Unofficial  g>ecretarp 


writing  on  the  package  was  unfamiliar, 
though,  so  I  opened  it  with  a  good  deal 
of  curiosity.  Mrs.  Holt  cried  out  with 
pleasure  when  I  took  out  an  exquisite, 
matchlessly  carved  Spanish  fan.  It  cer 
tainly  looked  old  enough  to  satisfy  even 
my  abnormal  taste.  It  fairly  reeked  with 
age.  There  was  a  card  in  the  box  which 
I  surreptitiously  extracted,  much  to  the 
amusement  of  El  Serior  Consul  who  caught 
me  in  the  act.  When  I  got  upstairs  I 
looked  at  it  again.  On  one  side  it  said, 
"  Dr.  Rexford  Thorne."  On  the  other 
was  a  line  which  read, 

"  I  am  giving  myself  the  pleasure  of 
wishing  you  Merry  Christmas.  Hasta  la 
vista."  (Till  I  see  you  again.) 

I  was  never  so  grateful  before,  Miladi, 
that  I  am  a  product  of  the  twentieth  cen 
tury.  Otherwise  it  might  be  up  to  me  to 
return  this  gift  on  the  ground  that  it  is 
improper  for  a  lone,  lorn  maiden  to  accept 
the  same  from  an  unmarried  man.  Not  for 

[in] 


<Efje  Unofficial 


me  !    Nothing  short  of  a  fire  shall  separate 
me  from  my  Spanish  fan. 

The  longer  I  stay  here  the  more  I  like 
this  quaint  old  place.  Asuncion  was  s& 
named  because  it  was  founded  on  the  fif 
teenth  day  of  August,  the  day  on  which  the 
Church  celebrates  the  Assumption  of  the 
Blessed  Virgin.  Whenever  I  am  free  for 
an  hour  or  so  I  go  exploring.  I  protested 
long  and  loudly  against  the  company  of 
the  old  Spanish  servant  whom  the  Consul 
insists  shall  go  with  me  wherever  I 
go.  We  argued  the  question  to  a  finish 
one  night,  but  Mr.  Holt  is  a  diplomat 
and  I  am  not,  so  I  lost  out.  He  was 
adamant,  although  he  teased  me  all  the 
time. 

"  Do  you  think  I  am  a  baby?  "  I  ex 
postulated. 

"Very  much  of  a  baby!  "  he  replied, 
imperturbably. 

"  But  I'm  not  afraid  —  ,"  indignantly. 

"  But  I  am  "  (laughing)  —  "  I  'm  a  real 
coward  I  " 

[112] 


ZHnofftctal  g>ecretarj> 


It  was  no  use.  Further  argument  was 
wasted.  So  now  all  I  can  do  to  get  even 
is  to  lead  my  escort  a  merry  dance.  I  take 
a  melancholy  pleasure  in  taking  her  places 
where  she  thinks  I  ought  n't  to  go,  and  I  'm 
convinced  that  one  is  an  American  only  in 
the  United  States. 

Asuncion  has  a  beautiful  cathedral, 
some  fine  parochial  churches,  a  Palace  for 
the  Government,  a  Public  Library,  and  a 
University.  There  is  a  good  theatre,  too, 
and  a  customs-house,  a  market-place,  some 
fairly  good  railway  stations,  and  a  hos 
pital  which  would  make  Dr.  Thorne  feel 
like  committing  suicide.  More  than  this, 
we  have  electric  lights,  telegraphs,  and 
yes  —  telephones.  But  there  is  one  draw 
back  to  the  telephones.  They  all  speak 
Spanish.  If  I  stay  here  forever  I  shall 
never  get  accustomed  to  hearing  a  voice 
say,  "  Buenos  dias"  instead  of  "  Hello," 
and  "  Adios,"  instead  of  "  Good-bye." 
Asuncion  is  thoroughly  Spanish  and  very 
old.  At  the  same  time  there  are  many 
[113] 


(llnoffirtal  is>ecretarp 


things  which  are  modern.  There  seems 
always  a  mixture  of  Past  and  Present. 

Since  I  have  been  here  I  have  thought 
so  many  times  how  like  the  history  of  the 
Transvaal  is  to  that  of  Paraguay.  They 
have  the  same  peculiarity  of  a  dual  lan 
guage  —  that  is,  the  people  of  the  town 
speak  one  language  and  the  people  of  the 
country  another.  In  the  Transvaal  the 
rural  language  is  the  official  one,  but  here 
the  reverse  is  true.  Spanish  is  the  official 
language.  The  natives  speak  the  Guarani. 
The  strongest  point  of  resemblance,  how 
ever,  is  historical.  Like  the  people  of  the 
Transvaal  those  of  Paraguay  waged  fort 
years  a  sanguinary  war  against  overwhelm 
ing  numbers  —  the  combined  forces  of 
Brazil,  Uruguay,  and  Argentina.  It  was 
when  Lopez  was  Dictator.  For  years  they 
fought,  till  it  was  almost  literally  true  that 
there  were  no  men  left  in  Paraguay. 

Lopez  was  a  gifted  young  man.  He  had 
the  personal  magnetism  sufficient  to  per 
suade  these  people  that  they  were  fighting 
[114] 


Unofficial  &ecretarp 


for  sacred  principles,  while  as  a  matter 
of  fact,  it  was  only  to  satisfy  his  own  over 
whelming  ambition.  Lopez  had  had  a 
European  education.  He  had  also  a 
French  lady  friend  and  an  idea  that  he  was 
Napoleon's  most  promising  understudy. 
There  are  two  unfinished  buildings  in  As 
uncion  which  are  of  interest.  Both  were 
commenced  by  him.  One  is  the  old  thea 
tre,  built  in  imitation  of  the  celebrated  La 
Scala  in  Milan,  the  other  a  mausoleum,  a 
reproduction  of  the  Hotel  des  Invalides  in 
Paris,  which  Lopez  designed  for  the  recep 
tion  of  his  own  body.  But  it  remains  un- 
tenanted,  for  in  1870  the  brave  little  army 
was  defeated  and  Lopez  himself  was  killed 
at  Aquidaban.  One  thing,  though,  he  did 
for  Paraguay.  While  the  men  were  fight 
ing  he  made  the  women  plant  the  orange 
trees,  of  which  there  are  thousands.  When 
the  men  were  all  dead  and  only  the  women 
and  children  were  left,  the  oranges  were 
their  salvation,  and  believe  me,  Miladi,  if 
you  have  never  eaten  a  Paraguayan 
[H5] 


?Hnotftctal 


orange,    then    you   have   never   eaten   an 
orange.     Q.  E.  D. 

Away  back  in  1609  the  Jesuits  were  sent 
out  from  Spain  for  the  purpose  of  pacify 
ing,  educating,  and  governing  these  people. 
Paraguay  was  then  a  part  of  the  Spanish 
dominions.  The  fathers  founded  schools, 
tried  to  reduce  the  Guarani  to  a  written 
language,  taught  the  natives  agriculture, 
architecture,  and  many  of  the  arts.  But 
the  greatest  thing  they  taught  them  was 
that  everything  they  needed  they  could 
make  themselves,  in  their  own  country  and 
out  of  their  native  material.  In  fact,  this 
is  true  of  this  whole  continent,  Miladi.  If 
there  were  not  another  inch  of  land  on 
the  face  of  the  earth,  South  America  could 
live  by  herself.  She  has  everything  with 
in  herself  —  the  rubber  which  keeps  off 
the  rain,  the  coffee  which  goes  with  one's 
breakfast,  the  beef  on  which  the  world 
dines,  the  wheat  to  make  the  bread,  great 
forests  of  lumber  for  the  builder,  finer 
woods  to  tempt  the  craftsman,  and  don't 
[116] 


Unofficial  &ecretarp 


forget  the  diamonds  which  are  here  to 
grace  the  beauty  of  the  Spanish  ladies.  In 
Paraguay,  however,  the  civilization  of 
those  early  days  fled  under  the  ravages  of 
war.  When  this  little  Republic  issued 
forth  from  the  disastrous  struggle  of 
1865-70,  she  was  the  mere  wreck  of  a 
nation.  But  those  who  fought  for  her, 
Miladi,  —  they  have  written  their  names 
alongside  those  of  the  Greeks  who  fought 
at  Marathon  and  Thermopylae. 

Heigho,  —  I  wonder  who  invented  holi 
days,  anyway!  They  are  the  very  deuce 
for  making  one  miserable.  They  are  all 
right  so  long  as  the  jollity  and  the  festivi 
ties  last,  but  when  these  are  over  and  you 
sit  down  a  few  moments  by  yourself,  be 
hold,  all  your  old  griefs  come  trooping 
out  of  the  past  laden  with  useless  regret 
and  pain  !  Not  only  that,  you  are  in  luck 
if  you  do  not  find  that  they  have  accumu 
lated  at  compound  interest.  But  there  — 
this  is  Christmas  and  therefore  different 
from  all  other  holidays.  I  will  not  be 
[117] 


^Unofficial 


gloomy.  Presently  I  will  get  out  my  little 
volume  of  Carlyle  and  find  the  page  where 
he  says  : 

"  The  eternal  stars  shine  out  just  as 
soon  as  it  is  dark  enough  !  " 

Life  has  so  many  corners,  Miladi.  We 
turn  and  turn  them,  thinking  all  the  time 
that  each  will  be  the  last.  But  evermore 
we  find  another  and  still  another.  When 
the  winds  of  to-morrow  shall  have  blown 
away  the  ashes  of  to-day  —  all  that  remain 
of  the  fires  that  burned  within  me  yester 
day  —  it  may  be  that  even  I  shall  find  love 
and  happiness  waiting  for  me  at  the  turn 
of  the  road  around  which  I  least  expect  to 
find  it.  Adios. 


ASUNCION,  PARAGUAY,  January. 

/"T-SHE  calendar  tells  me  that  it  is  the 
middle   of   January,    Miladi,   but   I 
don't  believe  it.    The  temperature  is  sug 
gestive  of  Beelzebub  his  residence,  and  if 
there  is  a  warmer  spot  in  the  universe  than 
[118] 


^Unofficial 


this  I  hope  a.  record  for  previous  good  con 
duct  will  keep  me  from  being  sent  there. 
I  never  realized  before  how  advisable  it  is 
to  walk  the  straight  and  narrow  path! 
I  Ve  been  thinking  all  day  of  a  story  I 
heard  once  about  a  man  who  was  forced 
to  spend  a  summer  in  Arizona.  He  wrote 
home  to  his  wife  that  if  he  owned  both 
Arizona  and  Hades  he  would  rent  Arizona 
and  live  in  Hades. 

Don't  think  for  a  moment,  though,  that 
I  am  slandering  Paraguay.  Only  a  short 
age  in  angels  keeps  it  from  being  a  Para 
dise.  The  sky  is  spread  above  us  in  one 
pure,  sapphire  sheet.  The  luxuriant  tropi 
cal  vegetation  has  reached  the  limit  of  its 
growth.  There  are  masses  of  flowers,  and 
alluring,  though  sometimes  poisonous  fruit. 
The  air  is  soft  and  relaxing,  and  to  those 
unaccustomed  to  the  climate,  enervating. 
When  you  go  out  for  a  walk,  which  you 
do  at  this  time  of  year  only  in  the  even 
ing,  you  suddenly  discover  that  you  have 
left  all  your  starch  at  home.  But  the 
[119] 


^Inofficial  ;%>ecrctan> 


heat   seems   to   have   no   effect  upon   the 
natives. 

The  men  here  are  fine,  stalwart-looking 
fellows,  but  there  are  no  young  women  in 
South  America.  There  seems  to  be  no 
intervening  period  between  childhood  and 
womanhood.  The  years  we  know  as  those 
of  girlhood  do  not  exist  here.  The  men 
are  happy-go-lucky,  care-free  people. 
When  they  have  a  little  money  they  spend 
it  feasting  and  dancing.  When  they 
have  none,  they  know  that  the  produce 
of  their  farms  will  support  them.  They 
have  large  families  but  no  anxiety  as  to  the 
future.  Give  a  Paraguayan  a  guitar,  a  few 
cigarettes,  and  a  glass  of  cona  (new  rum) 
and  he  will  find  recreation  and  diversion 
for  a  whole  day  at  no  expense.  Just  now, 
though,  on  account  of  the  intense  heat,  the 
theatres  are  closed.  The  promenade  is 
deserted.  The  walls  burn  your  hands  if 
you  touch  them,  but  ah,  Miladi,  it  is  all  so 
beautiful!  A  rare  melancholy  seems  to 
pervade  the  very  air,  and  over  every  inch 
[  120] 


{Unofficial  &>ecretarp 


and  into  every  corner  of  the  land  is  burned 
the  gold  of  the  South  American  summer. 
It  is  like  a  love  that  is  dead  and  yet 
persists. 

Pasquale  has  become  my  slave.  If  you 
don't  believe  it  just  listen  to  this.  A  few 
days  ago  he  presented  himself  at  the  door 
and  asked  for  me.  He  had  under  his  arm 
something  which  looked  like  a  roll  of 
matting,  and  when  I  appeared  he  pro 
ceeded  to  unroll  it  on  the  porch.  Now,  it 
did  n't  look  like  anything  I  had  ever 
seen  before,  Miladi,  and  when  Pasquale 
gets  excited  he  begins  to  talk  the  Guarani. 
I  am  somewhat  of  a  linguist  myself  but 
that  is  a  language  I  do  not  speak.  I  saw 
from  his  gestures,  however,  that  he  wanted 
me  to  walk  on  the  thing,  whatever  it  was, 
so  I  did.  I  happened  to  look  up  at  Mr. 
Holt  and  his  eyes  were  dancing  with 
mischief. 

"What  is  it?"  I  asked  him. 

"  Oh,  nothing,"  he  replied,  unconcern 
edly,  "  —  just  a  snake  !  " 

[121] 


^Unofficial  &>ecretarp 


A  snake  !  Did  n't  I  tell  you  this  was 
Paradise,  Miladi?  Even  the  serpent  is 
with  us  !  I  sent  forth  a  shriek  which  would 
have  discouraged  a  Comanche.  The  skin 
was  twenty-four  feet  long,  about  half  a 
yard  wide,  and  (I  must  confess)  beauti 
fully  mottled.  Pasquale  had  killed  His 
Snakeship  himself  about  a  mile  out  from 
town  at  the  edge  of  the  woods.  Then  he 
had  had  the  skin  tanned  and  made  into  a 
strip  for  "  La  Senorita  norte-Americano," 
as  he  persists  in  calling  me. 

Hear  my  last  will  and  testament,  Miladi. 
If  a  fellow  were  to  see  that  "  sarpint  " 
coming  at  him  au  naturel,  he  would  think 
he  had  consumed  a  whole  Kentucky  dis 
tillery!  Witness  my  hand  and  seal! 

After  Pasquale  had  gone  I  confided  in 
El  Sefior  Consul  that  I  should  certainly 
assassinate  our  young  Spanish  friend  if  he 
did  n't  stop  calling  me  all  the  time  a  North 
American.  There  are  moments  when  I 
don't  know  whether  to  array  myself  like  an 
Eskimo  lady  or  a  Pottawottomie  squaw  ! 
[122] 


<£fjc  ^Unofficial 


"  Cheer  up!"  he  laughed.  "When 
Mrs.  Holt  and  I  first  came  they  did  worse 
than  that.  They  called  us  '  Ingles  6  norte- 
Americano  '  —  English,  from  North 
America."  Then  he  told  me  a  story  about 
a  man  from  home  who  was  spending  the 
winter  in  Rome.  He  was  granted  an  audi 
ence  by  the  Pope  who,  when  he  learned 
that  his  visitor  was  an  American,  expanded 
genially  and  exclaimed, 

"Ah,  yes,  —  America.  From  Alaska, 
perhaps?  No?  Mexico,  then,  or  Peru?  " 

"  No,  Your  Holiness,"  answered  the 
American  humbly,  —  "  Boston!  " 

"  So  then,"  I  questioned,  "  being  an 
American  does  n't  mean  all  that  we  think 
it  does?" 

"  Well,"  he  answered,  diplomatically, 
but  in  a  manner  which  left  no  doubt  in 
my  mind  as  to  his  meaning,  "  that  de 
pends!  But  don't  regret  being  called  a 
North  American,"  he  continued.  "  It  is 
an  open  sesame.  It  has  unlocked  many 
a  gate  here  for  me.  Why,  I  stepped  into 
[123] 


Unofficial  &ecretarp 


the  Art  Exhibit  in  Buenos  Aires  one  day 
and  the  attendant  said,  '  Ah,  Senor,  — 
North  America  !  '  That  was  as  far  as  he 
got,  but  I  knew  from  the  contortions  he 
went  through  that  the  place  was  mine  for 
a  few  moments." 

Then,  as  usual,  he  could  n't  resist  teas 
ing  me.  He  said, 

"  Don't  be  rough  on  Pasquale.  It  's 
your  hair,  you  know." 

"  Oh,  pshaw!  "  I  said.  "  What  's  the 
matter  with  my  hair?  " 

"  Nothing  the  matter  with  it,  only  — 
there  is  n't  any  more  down  here  like  it. 
Pasquale  asked  me  yesterday"  (drawing 
himself  up  dramatically)  "  whether  it 
had  always  been  that  color.  I  assured 
him  that  I  had  known  you  ever  since  you 
were  born  and  that  it  had.  But  he 
shook  his  head.  He  could  n't  understand 
it." 

You  do  not  suppose  for  a  moment,  do 
you,  Miladi,  that  Pasquale's  education  ex 
tends  to  the  possible  transformation  from 
[124] 


^Inofficial  &>ccretarp 


brunette  to  blonde  which  a.  little  peroxide 
may  bring  forth?  Shades  of  the  Seven 
Sutherland  Sisters! 

There  has  been  nothing  doing  socially 
at  the  Consulate  since  I  came.  All  are 
waiting  for  the  extreme  heat  to  pass.  But 
I  have  met  Frau  Zollner,  Mrs.  German 
Consul  —  and  Mrs.  Gordon-Brown  — 
Mrs.  British  Consul.  The  former  is  fair 
and  fat  and  forty,  and  when  she  found  I 
could  talk  German  I  thought  she  was  go 
ing  to  abduct  me.  As  for  Mrs.  Gordon- 
Brown  —  she  is  perfectly  charming,  but 
all  I  can  say  is  that  she  is  Mrs.  British 
Consul  with  a  large  B.  If  there  is  anything 
in  King  George's  realm  more  English  than 
she,  I  should  like  to  see  it! 

We  are  looking  forward  to  seeing  Cap 
tain  Starr  again.  Each  alternate  voyage 
the  Dom  Pedro  lies  at  Buenos  Aires  for 
three  weeks.  So  we  are  planning  to  have 
him  here  with  us. 

Miladi,  sometimes  I  think  I  might  just 
as  well  have  borne  the  ills  I  had  in  Wash- 
[125] 


^Unofficial 


ington  as  to  have  flown  to  others  that  I 
knew  not  of  —  in  Buenos  Aires.  The  day 
hours  at  the  Consulate  are  filled  to  over 
flowing,  for  which  I  render  continuous 
thanks.  To  have  one's  hands  employed 
and  one's  thoughts  occupied  has  been  the 
salvation  of  many  a  storm-shaken  crea 
ture,  but  the  night  hours  —  they  are  long 
and  shadowy  and  full  of  dreams.  Voices 
from  out  the  land  of  "  Ye  Hearte's  De 
sire  "  call  to  my  soul,  already  haunted 
with  the  unfulfilment  of  life.  But  then, 
the  night  does  n't  last  so  very  long 
after  all.  Sunrise  comes  as  usual  next 
morning  and  in  the  electrical  presence  of 
El  Senor  Consul  I  inhale  new  life.  Every 
now  and  then  one  of  my  dead  ambitions 
rises  out  of  its  grave  and  I  really  feel  like 
doing  things. 

Buenos  noches,  Miladi.  I  have  a  picture 
of  you  at  this  present  moment  wading 
about  in  the  snow!  The  very  thought 
makes  me  feel  better.  Would  that  I  were 
a  child  again  —  with  a  little  red  sled  and 
[126] 


Unofficial  &ecretarp 


a  hill-side  and  a  small  boy  to  start  me  on 
the  downward  path.    Adios. 

ASUNCION,  PARAGUAY,  February. 

\7  OU  have  always  had  my  unbounded 
sympathy,  Miladi,  in  that  you  had 
me  for  a  cousin  and  could  n't  help  it,  but 
you  would  never  have  guessed  —  now, 
would  you?  —  that  I  was  in  danger  of  be 
coming  a  Foreign  Missionary. 

A  few  Sundays  ago  I  awoke  with  a 
deadly  longing  to  hear  the  Church  Service. 
Reading  it  to  myself  did  n't  seem  to  fill  the 
long-felt  want.  At  last  I  spoke  of  it  to 
Mr.  Holt.  He  laid  down  his  cigar,  and 
said  with  a  little  laugh, 

"Ettu,  Brute?" 

I  have  aired  my  views  on  the  subject  of 
religion  in  your  presence  so  many  times  that 
I  think  it  is  taking  a  mean  advantage  to  do 
it  again  from  this  distance,  Miladi.  Mine 
is  a  faith  untroubled  by  doctrine.  Per 
sonally,  I  believe  in  God  the  Father, 
[127] 


Unofficial  &etretarp 


Maker  of  Heaven  and  Earth,  and  in  Jesus 
Christ  His  Only  Son,  Our  Lord.  After 
that  all  creation  may  split  up  into  sects 
and  denominations  if  it  chooses  and  enter 
tain  any  creed  it  pleases.  It  makes  no  dif 
ference  to  me  what  it  is.  If  there  is  a 
man,  woman,  or  child  on  earth,  however, 
who  has  n't  a  creed  of  some  kind,  it  is  my 
honest  opinion  that  he,  she,  or  it  had  better 
go  out  and  find  one.  I  remember  once  — 
a  long  time  ago  it  seems  now  —  I  went  in 
to  my  father's  library  and  on  his  desk 
saw  a  little  slip  of  paper  on  which  he  had 
copied  from  an  open  book  lying  there  these 
lines  : 

"  What  care  I  for  caste  or  creed? 
It  is  the  deed  —  it  is  the  deed  ! 
What  care  I  for  class  or  clan? 
It  is  the  man  —  it  is  the  man  ! 
What  care  I  for  robe  or  stole? 
It  is  the  soul  —  it  is  the  soul  ! 
It  is  the  faith,  it  is  the  hope, 
It  is  the  struggle  up  the  slope, 
It  is  the  brain,  the  eye  to  see 
One  God  and  one  humanity!" 

[128] 


Unofficial 


I  never  forgot  those  words,  Miladi,  and 
I  have  always  said  to  myself  that  if  they 
satisfied  his  great  soul  they  were  good 
enough  for  me.  Nevertheless,  I  have  al 
ways  tried  to  stay  in  the  beaten  path. 

"  I  am  not  at  all  surprised  to  hear  you 
say  this,"  Mr.  Holt  said.  "We've  all 
been  there.  Mrs.  Holt  and  I  feel  it  too. 
When  one  is  not  Catholic  oneself,  to  live 
in  a  truly  Catholic  country  is  a  strange 
experience." 

Well,  I  could  n't  get  the  thing  out  of  my 
mind,  and  when  a  few  days  later,  I  hap 
pened  to  meet  Mrs.  British  Consul  in  one 
of  the  shops,  I  unburdened  myself  to  her. 
I  found  that  not  only  she  herself  but  all 
the  people  at  the  British  Consulate,  felt 
the  same  sense  of  loss.  So  it  transpired 
that  last  Sunday  we  got  together  at  the 
British  Consulate  and  Mr.  Caruthers,  the 
Head  Secretary  there,  whose  father  is  an 
English  clergyman,  read  the  Service.  I 
sang  "  The  King  of  Love  my  Shepherd 
is,"  and  the  whole  affair  passed  off 
[129] 


{Unofficial  &ecretarp 


beautifully.  Mr.  Caruthers  used  his  Eng 
lish  Prayer  Book,  of  course,  but  he  was 
nothing  if  not  diplomatic.  When  he  came 
to  the  prayer  for  the  King  he  read  : 

Most  heartily  we  beseech  Thee  with  Thy 
favor  to  behold  and  bless  our  Most  Gracious 
Sovereign  Lord  King  George  V,  The  President 
of  the  United  States,  and  all  others  in  authority. 

Thus  did  he  ward  off  all  danger  of  any 
international  complications  ! 

So  you  see,  Miladi,  that  it  is  not  impos 
sible  for  good  to  result  from  what  is  some 
times  a  truly  selfish  motive.  We  all  felt 
better  after  our  little  service  and  it  has 
made  a  sort  of  tie  between  us. 

Things  are  beginning  to  take  on  life 
again.  The  terrible  heat  is  passing.  Un 
used  as  I  was  to  the  climate  it  almost 
finished  me  for  a  while.  The  Consul  in 
sisted  that  I  stay  quietly  at  home  for  a 
few  days  so  I  entertained  myself  by  watch 
ing  the  Spanish  servants  make  the  guava 
jelly.  Next  to  the  orange,  the  guava  is  the 
[130] 


Unofficial  &ecretarj> 


most  abundant  of  the  fruits  in  Paraguay. 
The  trees  look  much  like  our  plum  trees. 
The  fruit  is  yellow,  about  the  size  of 
a  five-shilling  piece,  and  filled  with  tiny 
seeds.  Each  tree  yields  about  a  bushel 
and  a  half,  and  the  women  bring  the  fruit 
in  large  basketfuls  to  Asuncion.  The  sea 
son  for  guava  is  from  January  to  April. 
It  makes  beautiful  and  delicious  jelly,  clear 
and  bright  red  in  color. 

The  water  jars  have  also  a  continual 
fascination  for  me.  They  are  large  and 
porous  and  during  the  extreme  heat  the 
moisture  hung  in  great  drops  on  the  out 
side.  On  the  inside,  however,  the  drinking 
water  was  as  cool  as  one  could  wish.  If 
we  had  them  at  home  the  Artificial  Ice 
Company  would  have  to  go  out  of  business. 

Of  all  the  products  of  Paraguay,  though, 
nothing  is  so  interesting  as  the  yerba-mate, 
the  Paraguayan  tea.  It  is  n't  tea  at  all, 
of  course,  but  is  far  superior  to  it.  The 
word  yerba  means  an  herb  —  the  word 
mate  means  a  cup.  Therefore  it  is  the 


Unofficial 


herb  drunk  from  the  cup.  Yerba  drinking 
is  as  prevalent  in  Paraguay  as  tea-drinking 
is  in  England  or  Japan.  The  yerba  is  the 
leaf  of  a  plant  which  grows  wild  in  this 
country.  They  have  now  large  plantations 
where  they  grow  it,  or  rather  where  it 
grows  itself,  for  it  does  not  need  cultiva 
tion.  The  leaves  look  like  our  holly 
leaves  —  green,  smooth,  and  glossy.  The 
plantations  where  they  grow  it  are  called 
the  yerbales,  and  here  the  peons,  under  an 
overseer,  strip  the  plant  of  its  shining 
leaves  and  toast  them  over  large  fires  till 
they  are  quite  dry  and  brittle.  They  are 
then  placed  in  a  large  wooden  mortar  and 
pounded,  and  when  they  are  quite  reduced 
to  dust  the  powdered  yerba  is  put  into 
large  bags  and  sent  to  market. 

The  Paraguayans  have  a  method  of 
drinking  it  which  is  all  their  own.  It  is 
made  exactly  as  we  make  tea.  The  natives 
make  theirs  in  the  mate,  which  is  a  small 
gourd.  They  put  a  pinch  of  yerba  in  the 
mate,  pour  the  boiling  water  upon  it,  and 
[132] 


Unofficial  g>ecretarp 


then  suck  the  infusion  through  a  little  tube 
called  a  bombilla  which  expands  at  the 
lower  end  into  a  bulb  filled  with  tiny  holes. 
This  acts  as  a  strainer.  Sometimes  the 
bombilla  is  a  very  primitive  affair,  simply 
a  little  wooden  tube,  but  often  it  is  an 
exquisite  thing  of  silver,  the  filigree  show 
ing  the  finest  workmanship.  The  native 
method  of  drinking  the  yerba  is  not  easily 
acquired  by  foreigners.  They  never  fail 
to  scald  themselves  the  first  time  they  try 
it  and  usually  end  by  making  and  drinking 
it  as  they  would  ordinary  tea. 

I  did  not  like  the  yerba  at  first.  Like 
caviare  and  ripe  olives,  it  is  a  cultivated 
taste,  but  once  you  have  acquired  it  you 
can  not  loose  it.  It  has  all  the  stimulating 
qualities  of  tea  and  coffee,  but  none  of  their 
bad  effects.  One  can  drink  all  he  wants 
of  it  and  will  find  himself  neither  wakeful 
nor  nervous  afterward.  There  is  one 
drawback  about  yerba-dnnkmg.  If  you  go 
to  see  a  Paraguayan  family,  the  whole 
crowd  (I  use  the  word  advisedly,  for  the 
[133] 


(HnoUirtal 


families  are  enormous)  and  other  guests, 
if  they  have  them,  will  be  seated.  Then 
the  yerba  is  passed  from  one  to  the  other, 
all  using  the  same  cup  and  bombilla.  They 
will  be  greatly  offended  if  you  refuse.  Con 
sequently  one  does  n't  make  a  business  of 
visiting  them.  Preparing  and  packing  the 
yerba  is  the  principal  industry  of  the  coun 
try  and  if  I  were  a  man  I  think  I  should 
stop  Secretarying  and  begin  exporting 
yerba  to  the  United  States.  What  a  fine 
thing  it  would  be  for  the  frayed  and  fraz 
zled  American  nervous  system  ! 

As  another  proof  of  the  manner  in  which 
the  other  countries  have  "  beaten  us  to  it," 
I  went  one  day  into  a  little  shop  to  make 
some  trifling  purchase  and  my  eyes  fell 
upon  an  article  which  bore  the  unmistak 
able  earmarks  of  a  United  States  factory. 
I  was  curious  enough  to  inquire  whence  it 
came. 

"  Ah,  Senorita,"  replied  the  proprietor, 
"  that  is  European." 

A  little  further  questioning  brought 
[134] 


^Unofficial  &ecretarp 


forth  the  truth.  The  article  was  European 
only  because  it  had  been  sent  to  Europe 
before  being  sent  here  —  to  save  time. 
There  are  not  enough  boats  running  direct 
from  North  to  South 'America  even  to  fill 
what  orders  we  do  get.  So  our  American 
goods  are  no  longer  American  when  they 
get  here,  and  it  serves  us  right.  Further 
more,  a  few  more  questions  brought  forth 
the  information  that  the  Paraguayan  im 
porters  send  their  orders  for  these  things 
to  Europe  instead  of  to  the  States.  What 
do  you  think  of  that? 

The  Paraguayan  peasants,  that  is  the 
laboring  men  who  work  on  the  yerba  plan 
tations  and  the  ranches  —  peons,  they  call 
them  —  are  in  a  class  all  by  themselves. 
We  have  no  people  like  them  at  home, 
neither  are  they  like  the  peons  in  Mexico 
who,  because  they  are  forever  and  ever 
lastingly  in  debt  to  their  employers,  are 
forced  to  work  for  them  all  their  lives. 
The  latter  see  to  it  that  they  never  suc 
ceed  in  getting  out  of  debt.  Here  the 
[135] 


^Unofficial  jfeccrctarp 


peons  come  to  do  this  kind  of  labor  usually 
because  of  some  disgracia,  perhaps  a  knife- 
thrust  over  a  game  of  cards,  perhaps  a 
quarrel  at  a  horse  race,  or  because  of  the 
dark  eyes  of  a  senorita.  There  are  some 
splendid-looking  fellows  among  them  and 
for  the  most  part  they  are  cheerful  and 
good-natured.  But  when  they  drink  the 
cona,  the  native  rum,  they  are  dangerous 
and  their  respect  for  human  life  is  nil. 

Pasquale  strolled  under  the  window  just 
now  whistling  "  Me  gustan  todas  "  —  a 
little  Spanish  folk-song  which  they  sing 
down  here  to  the  same  tune  the  German 
children  use  for  "  Ich  hatt'  einen  Kam- 
eraden"  The  translation  runs  something 
like  this  : 

I  love  the  girls,  the  pretty  girls, 

I  love  them  all  —  the  dark,  the  fair, 
The  short,  the  tall,  but,  best  of  all 
I  love  the  girl  with  the  golden  hair! 

Poor  Pasquale  !     I  fear  that  the  pangs 
of  unrequited  affection  must  he  his.    Adios. 
[136] 


Unofficial  &>ecretarp 


ASUNCION,  PARAGUAY,  March  fifteenth. 


/"\NE  gains  experience  rapidly  in  this 
country,  Miladi.  A  few  days  ago 
the  Consul  had  a  letter  from  an  old  friend 
up  in  Maine  asking  him  to  look  up  a  some 
what  wayward  son  whom  he  had  reason  to 
believe  was  on  a  ranch  not  far  from  here. 
The  weather  was  fine  so  Mrs.  Holt  and  I 
went  with  El  Serior  Consul  on  his  quest. 

The  national  dress  of  the  women  of 
Paraguay,  that  is,  of  the  native  country 
women,  is  an  exceedingly  primitive  affair. 
It  does  duty,  it  is  true,  for  all  the  pomp 
and  circumstance  which  the  female  form 
divine  seems  to  require  in  other  lands,  but 
it  is  an  extremely  decollete  and  sleeveless 
garment  called  a  tupoi,  and  sometimes  in 
the  more  remote  villages  even  this  is 
considered  cumbersome.  As  for  the 
ninas,  (babies)  they  wear  their  native 
nothingness  ! 

As  we  drove  along  we  saw  a  cottage 
back  of  a  clump  of  trees  and  the  Consul 
[137] 


^Unofficial  &ecretarp 


thought  he  would  inquire  whether  we 
were  following  the  right  road.  In  this 
clear  atmosphere  you  can  see  a  long  dis 
tance  and  we  had  noticed  several  people 
moving  about  the  cottage.  At  sight  of  us, 
however,  there  was  a  general  stampede. 
Everybody  fled. 

I  was  glad  they  did,  Miladi.  Never 
having  resided  in  the  Garden  of  Eden  I 
have  always  looked  upon  clothes  of  some 
kind  as  a  sine  qua  non.  Mr.  Holt  knocked 
and  pounded  and  pounded  and  knocked. 
At  last  one  of  the  women  appeared  clad  in 
the  tupoi.  With  courteous  salutations, 
half-Spanish,  half-Guarani,  she  requested 
us  to  take  possession  of  the  house.  She 
apologized  for  keeping  the  Consul  waiting 
—  said  that  there  was  but  one  tupoi  in  the 
family  and  she  had  had  trouble  in  finding 
it! 

The  outer  garment  of  the  men  is  the 

poncho.    It  is  not  made  of  rubber  such  as 

those  our  soldiers  wear  at  home  are,  but  is 

a  simple  piece  of  woollen  or  cotton  cloth, 

[138] 


Unofficial  &ecretarp 


cut  six  feet  square,  with  a  hole  in  the 
centre  through  which  he  puts  his  head.  It 
is  his  coat  by  day  and  his  blanket  by  night. 
When  he  is  tired  he  spreads  it  upon  the 
grass  and  rests  on  it,  and  next  to  his  horse 
it  is  his  most  valued  possession. 

I  am  always  finding  things  in  Asuncion. 
A  few  days  ago  when  I  was  out  walking 
(with  that  villainous  old  Spanish  woman 
ambling  along  behind  me)  I  came  to  a  little 
house  which  looked  interesting.  In  the 
doorway  sat  an  ancient  specimen  of  our 
sex  who  —  well,  I  think  she  must  have 
been  the  identical  messenger  who  went 
after  the  doctor  the  day  that  Methusa- 
lah's  great-grandmother  was  born.  Mi- 
ladi,  she  was  the  oldest  ever!  But  there 
she  sat,  and  when  I  saw  what  she  was  do 
ing,  I  sat,  myself. 

She  was  making  lace  —  the  marvellous 
Paraguayan  lace,  another  illustration  of 
the  truth  of  the  teachings  of  the  Jesuits, 
that  everything  they  needed  or  wanted 
they  could  make  themselves  out  of  their 
[139] 


Unofficial  £>ccrctarp 


native  material.  She  was  almost  blind, 
but  her  sense  of  touch  never  deceived  her. 
The  lace  is  the  most  beautiful  I  have  ever 
seen,  and  that  is  saying  a  good  deal. 
Europe  has  never  produced  anything  to 
equal  it.  It  is  called  in  the  native  lan 
guage  nandutij  meaning  a  cobweb,  and  it 
is  made  of  thread  spun  from  the  native 
cotton  and  sometimes  from  other  native 
plants.  In  texture  it  is  exceedingly  fine, 
soft  and  lustrous  as  the  finest  silk.  Best 
of  all  it  is  practically  indestructible,  and 
the  skill  these  women  display  with  the 
needle  while  working  out  difficult  and  in 
tricate  designs  is  wonderful.  The  lace  sells 
here  for  a  song.  I  should  hate  to  try  to 
buy  it  in  Paris.  If  it  ever  finds  its  way  in 
to  the  market  of  Europe  it  will  command 
exorbitant  prices. 

When  I  got  back  to  my  desk,  about  an 
hour  behind  time,  Mr.  Holt  looked  up  and 
said  with  mock  sternness, 

"Now  where  have  you  been?"  (Ac 
cent  on  the  now.) 

[  140] 


^Inofficial 


I  assured  him  that  like  a  sheep  I  had 
gone  astray  —  that  I  had  done  the  things 
I  ought  not  to  have  done,  and,  incident 
ally,  had  left  undone  a  few  of  the  things  I 
should  have  been  doing,  but  that  on  the 
whole  I  had  had  a  fine  time! 

He  laughed  and  then  said,  teasingly, 
"  Well,  it  takes  little  to  amuse  children. 
I  think  I  shall  not  be  as  enthusiastic  as  you 
are  when  I  get  my  crown!  " 

Our  conversation  was  interrupted  by  the 
entrance  of  Mr.  Armstrong,  the  Head 
Secretary.  He  is  a  fine  fellow,  Miladi, 
but  he  has  a  wife,  and  every  time  I  look  at 
him  I  say  to  myself: 

Needles  and  pins,  needles  and  pins! 
When  a  man  marries  his  trouble  begins. 

Do  you  know,  Miladi,  of  late  years  I 
have  been  consumed  with  admiration  for 
the  perspicacity  of  Mother  Goose  !  Don't 
you  remember  the  day  we  came  upon  her 
grave  in  the  Old  Granary  Burying  Ground 
in  Boston?  We  read,  not  without  a  feel 
ing  of  awe,  the  inscription: 
[141] 


Unofficial 


Sacred  to  the  memory  of 

ANNE 
Wife  of  Isaac  Goose. 


Mother   Goose. 

Until  I  saw  that  stone  I  had  been  in 
clined  to  look  upon  this  good  lady  as  a 
myth.  Now  I  am  convinced  that  she  was 
a  female  Solomon.  More  than  that  — 
avaunt,  ye  Wright  Brothers,  Brookins, 
Beachy,  et  al!  Hie  to  the  woods  and  the 
hills.  You  are  several  centuries  behind  the 
procession.  There  is  nothing  new  about 
aviation,  for 

Old  Mother  Goose  when  she  wanted  to  wander, 
Rode  through  the  air  on  a  very  fine  gander! 

But  to  get  back  to  first  principles  (other 
wise  Mr.  Armstrong) —  he  has  a  wife ! 

What  under  the  sun  possesses  the  men 
to  marry  us,  anyway,  Miladi  ?  Can  you 
tell?  It  is  a  subject  on  which  I  long  have 
pondered.  Unmarried,  man  is  lord  of 
creation.  Earth,  sea,  and  air  are  his.  He 
[142] 


^Unofficial  gbecretarp 


pays  the  taxes,  controls  the  Steamship  Syn 
dicate,  and  invents  the  aeroplane.  In  spite 
of  all  this,  just  as  often  as  not,  the  fields 
go  unfilled,  the  boats  dash  against  the 
rocks,  and  the  aeroplane  lights  in  the  top 
of  a  tall  tree  while  Dear  Man  pursues  the 
fleeing  garment  of  a  lady,  and  for  what, 
Miladi,  —  for  what?  Why  do  the  men 
marry  us  ?  Surely  not  for  the  delirious  joy 
of  paying  our  bills! 

To  me  the  strangest  thing  about  the 
whole  proposition  is  that  the  man  who 
really  seems  to  be  the  right  sort  —  the 
scholar  who  has  the  wisdom  of  all  the  ages 
at  his  tongue's  end,  the  scientist  who  scorns 
everything  which  he  can  not  reduce  to 
formula,  the  lawyer  who  argues  and  wins 
the  most  difficult  cases,  the  minister  who 
preaches  eloquent  sermons,  the  doctor  who, 
because  of  the  character  of  his  calling 
needs  more  than  any  man  on  earth  sym 
pathetic  companionship  at  home,  not  infre 
quently  chooses  as  a  life  partner  a  dear 
little  package  of  frivolous  femininity  tied 
[143] 


Unofficial  &ecretarp 


up  in  blue  ribbons,  whose  sole  qualifica 
tion  for  the  job  is  that  she  is  kissable. 

Apropos  of  doctors,  Miladi,  —  as  the 
darkies  down  South  say  —  I  have  a 
"  hunch  "  that  being  a  doctor's  wife  is 
one  of  the  Fine  Arts.  He  is  the  man 
of  all  men  who  plays  the  game!  All  the 
day  long,  nothing  but  sickness  and  suffer 
ing  and  pain,  and  he  is  in  luck  if  he  does 
not  find  them  accompanied  by  poverty, 
wretchedness,  and  woe.  I  have  no  doubt 
that  a  doctor  could  stand  people's  physical 
ailments  better  if  only  they  would  keep 
their  scarred  and  battered  souls  out  of 
sight!  Through  the  scorching  sun  of 
summer,  the  winter  snows,  the  spring 
rains,  the  autumn  winds,  he  goes  abroad. 
When  the  rest  of  the  world  is  asleep  he 
is  in  the  streets.  He  has  to  smile  though 
all  the  earth  is  in  tears.  He  has  to  tell  us 
the  truth  when  he  knows  it  will  break  our 
hearts.  He  is  there  to  greet  the  new-born. 
He  closes  the  eyes  of  the  dead.  Year  in, 
year  out,  he  willingly  repeats  to-day 


{Unofficial  &ecretarp 


what  he  did  yesterday.  Yes,  it  is  the 
doctor  who  plays  the  game  ! 

Well,  then,  if  after  something  less  than 
twenty-four  hours  of  this  sort  of  thing 
every  day  he  gets  home,  at  brief  intervals, 
to  an  unhealthy  atmosphere  and  a  queru 
lous  companion  who  thinks  that  he  could 
have  gotten  home  to  dinner  at  six  if  he 
had  tried  —  but  there,  Miladi.  Paciencia! 
Let  us  leave  the  verdict  with  the  coroner! 

After  all,  don't  we  women  have  very 
much  the  better  of  it  in  this  world?  If 
we  have  the  luck  to  draw  a  perfectly  good 
husband  we  take  up  most  of  his  time, 
spend  all  of  his  money,  and  wear  some  of 
his  clothes.  What  more  can  we  ask? 

I  think  Daddy  used  to  be  quite  disgusted 
with  me  because  I  could  never  enthuse 
over  the  fair  and  virtuous  Penelope  who 
spent  the  night  ripping  out  what  she  had 
woven  during  the  day  while  she  waited 
for  her  lord  to  return.  I  did  my  very  best, 
Miladi,  but  I  couldn't  get  up  a  thrill!  I 
was  all  the  time  thinking  of  a  storm-tossed 
[145] 


^Unofficial  &ecretarp 


ocean  where  Ulysses  was  clinging  to  a 
spar! 

Returning  to  the  art  of  being  a  doctor's 
wife  —  if  he  is  the  right  kind  of  a  man  he 
will  become  a  popular  physician,  in  which 
case,  it  is  true,  she  will  see  little  of  him. 
On  the  other  hand,  if  he  is  not  the  right 
kind  she  will  wish  she  had  never  seen  him 
at  all,  and  there  you  are.  Heaven  protect 
us  from  the  doctor  who  is  n't  the  right  kind 
of  a  man! 

Deep  down  in  my  inner  consciousness  I 
have  a  serious  think  or  two  about  this  sub 
ject  of  marriage.  I  am  almost  afraid  to 
say  it  aloud.  But  I  am  convinced  that 
within  every  man  since  the  world  was 
made,  deep-rooted  as  life  itself,  lies  the 
desire  to  see  himself  reproduced  in  his 
child.  Man  realizes,  as  woman  seems  not 
to  do,  that  Youth  will  pass,  that  Age  will 
come,  just  as  surely  as  that  to-morrow's 
sun  shall  rise.  There  will  come  the  day 
when  Time  will  begin  knocking  at  the 
gates,  when  his  life-work  is  done,  when  if 
[146] 


{Unofficial 


he  have  not  the  strong  arm  of  young  man 
or  young  womanhood  to  lean  upon,  he 
shall  sit  by  himself  in  that  long  twilight 
which  is  followed  by  the  night.  Therefore 
he  would  that  the  light-heartedness  of 
youth,  his  own  flesh  and  blood,  should 
bear  him  company  through  life.  And  he  is 
willing  to  pay  the  price,  to  face  the  work- 
a-day  world  with  its  manifold  griefs  and 
burdens.  So  far,  so  good.  Hear  my  last 
word,  then,  Miladi,  and  I  '11  forever  after 
ward  hold  my  peace.  Show  me  that  wo 
man  who  marries  a  man,  wilfully  accept 
ing  the  best  that  he  has  to  give  her,  who 
then  leaves  him  with  the  greatest  longing 
of  his  heart  unsatisfied,  and  I  will  show 
you  the  most  contemptible  creature  on  the 
face  of  God's  earth.  Selah. 

But  then,  I  don't  want  to  be  too  hard 
on  Mrs.  Armstrong.  It  is  only  that  I  have 
always  despised  those  intensely  practical 
people  who  have  n't  room  in  their  cosmos 
for  one  iota  of  sentiment.  I  never  hank 
ered  after  the  halo  which  seems  to 
[H7] 


Cfje  ^Inofficial 


surround  the  head  of  the  woman  of  the 
type  commonly  known  as  "  capable."  Far 
rather  would  I  be  the  very  creature  that 
I  am,  full  of  faults,  but  withal  thoroughly 
human. 

When  I  went  with  La  Senora  Consul  to 
return  the  call  of  Mrs.  Head  Secretary,  I 
saw  at  a  glance  the  reason  for  her  hus 
band's  meek  and  lowly  spirit.  Miladi, 
every  shade  in  that  house  was  drawn  up 
exactly  three  and  three-quarter  inches 
(tailors'  measure)  from  the  window-sill. 
There  was  a  "  dim,  religious  light  "  over 
the  whole  house.  If  the  chairs  had  been 
placarded  they  could  not  have  said  more 
emphatically,  "  Don't  sit  on  me."  There 
seemed  to  be  nothing  else  for  it,  however, 
so  I  sat  down  gingerly  on  one  while  Mrs. 
Holt  teeter-tottered  hazardously  on  the 
edge  of  another,  and  I  drew  my  own  con 
clusions  as  to  the  thoughts  of  the  Head 
Secretary  on  "  all  the  comforts  of  home." 
I  have  no  doubt  that,  like  the  Hindoo, 
he  takes  off  his  shoes  before  entering  this 
[148] 


Unofficial  &ecretarp 


holy  temple.  Still,  far  be  it  from  me  to 
discredit  any  one's  good  intentions.  Per 
haps  Mrs.  A  —  is  only  trying  to  set  the 
Spanish  women  a  worthy  example.  They 
are,  as  Uncle  Remus  said  of  Ole  Sis'  Tur 
key-Buzzard,  "  perfec'ly  scan-dale-yous 
housekeepers." 

There  is  a  never-changing,  rare  good- 
fellowship  existing  between  El  Senor  Con 
sul  and  his  wife.  What  's  the  reason  all 
married  people  are  n't  good  friends  like 
these  two,  I  wonder?  When  Mr.  Holt  put 
in  his  appearance  that  evening  we  were 
still  discussing  our  call  of  the  afternoon, 
and  in  a  burst  of  marital  confidence 
La  Sefiora  Consul  said, 

"  What  on  earth  do  you  suppose  made 
him  want  to  marry  her?  " 

Mr.  Holt  paused  a  moment  before  re 
plying.  Then,  regardless  of  my  presence, 
he  took  her  pretty  face  between  his  two 
hands  and  softly  kissed  it. 

"My  dear!"  he  expostulated. 
"  S-s-s-sh  !  Perhaps  she  is  wondering  the 


{Unofficial  &ecretarp 


same  thing  about  me  !  A  man's  mother- 
in-law  may  be  his  misfortune,  but  his  wife 
is  his  own  fault." 

We  both  went  off  into  fits  of  laughter. 
Trust  El  Senor  Consul  to  clear  the  atmos 
phere  every  time. 

THE  U.  S.  CONSULATE,  ASUNCION. 

XT7ERE  you  ever  in  love,  Miladi  ?  Then 
believe    me  —  the    pain    it    brings 
would  make  a  well-developed  case  of  in 
digestion  feel  like  a  soft  spring  morning. 

What  a  child  I  was  in  those  old  days 
in  Washington  !  What  dreams  I  dreamed, 
and  how  I  grieved  over  the  awakening! 
How  Love  must  shudder  and  hide  his  holy 
face  when  he  sees  a  travesty  walking  in  his 
image,  Miladi,  and  yet,  perhaps  it  is  es 
sential  —  perhaps  it  is  that  part  of  the 
Sorry  Scheme  of  Things  Entire  by  means 
of  which  we  learn  the  difference  between 
the  false  and  the  true,  the  artificial  and 
the  real. 

[150] 


Unofficial  &ecretarp 


They  say  that  it  comes  but  once  — 
that  sunrise,  that  first,  brief,  fleeting 
moment  of  abandonment,  when  all  the 
world  —  wealth,  fame,  honor,  life  itself, 
seem  well  lost  if  only  Love  be  gained.  It 
may  be  true.  But  when  all  that  one  gains 
is  a  Thing  called  Love,  Miladi,  —  only  a 
mockery  and  a  sham  —  shall  he  then  know 
Love  no  more? 

Love  is  like  a  fire  in  a  grate.  Feed  it 
often  and  well  and  its  warmth  and  glow 
will  leap  to  meet  you  like  a  living  thing. 
Look  down  deep  into  its  bed  of  glowing 
coals  as  you  would  look  into  the  crater  of 
Vesuvius,  and  you  can  easily  persuade  your 
self  that  there  is  nothing  on  the  earth 
nor  in  the  heavens  above  nor  in  the  wa 
ters  under  the  earth  which  can  put  the 
fire  out,  but  beware! 

Sometimes  we  sit  and  dream  before  the 
fire.  Sometimes  we  fall  asleep,  oh,  only 
for  a  moment,  it  is  true,  but  we  awaken 
with  a  start  and  remember  a  neglected 
duty.  We  have  forgotten  to  replenish  the 


^Unofficial 


fire.  But  we  will  do  so  now!  Too  late! 
It  is  useless.  The  fire  has  burned  itself 
out.  The  dead,  gray  ashes,  which  a  breath 
would  scatter  to  the  Four  Winds,  are  all 
that  remain.  We  can  never  fan  into  life 
that  warmth  and  glow  again,  ah,  no.  But 
we  can  kindle  a  new  fire  in  the  same  grate. 

Ah,  the  wounds  we  receive  as  we  make 
our  way  through  life,  Miladi  !  They  bleed 
and  burn  till  we  come  to  look  upon  them 
as  incurable.  But  some  bright  morning 
we  awaken  to  the  realization  that  they 
have  healed  of  their  own  accord.  Only 
the  scars  remain. 

Two  weeks  ago  we  were  giving  a  recep 
tion  at  the  Consulate  to  the  other  foreign 
representatives  and  their  suites.  La 
Senora  Consul  was  in  her  element  while  the 
preparations  were  in  progress.  When  it 
comes  to  doing  things  just  right  Mrs.  Holt 
is  long  both  on  knowledge  and  ability. 
But  at  the  very  last  moment  she  had  an 
accident.  She  sprained  her  ankle  so  bad 
ly  that  it  was  evident  there  would  be  no 
[152] 


Unofficial  &ecretarp 


possibility  of  standing  on  it  for  some  time 
to  come.  We  were  seized  with  the  utmost 
consternation.  What  should  we  do?  At 
last  she  said  to  me, 

"  There  's  no  help  for  it,  Virginia. 
You  '11  have  to  represent  me." 

"  I?  "  I  cried.  I  was  perfectly  aghast. 
"Why,  I  could  n't  do  it!" 

"  Well,"  (she  laughed  in  spite  of  her 
pain)  "  it  is  either  you  or  Mrs.  Head 
Secretary." 

That  settled  it.  Nothing  could  have 
induced  me  to  subject  El  Serior  Consul  to 
that.  So  after  I  had  made  Mrs.  Holt  as 
comfortable  as  possible  I  went  upstairs  to 
get  dressed. 

I  looked  over  my  wardrobe,  but  nothing 
seemed  to  suit  the  occasion.  The  gown  I 
had  intended  wearing  would  not  do  if  I 
had  to  stand  by  the  Consul's  side  and  re 
ceive  his  guests.  I  felt  very  much  dis 
turbed,  but  all  at  once  I  bethought  me  of 
a  well-wrapped-and-tied-up  package  which 
I  had  brought  with  me  unopened  from 
[153] 


Unofficial  3s>ecrrtari> 


Washington.  Now,  what  is  the  use,  Mi- 
ladi,  in  having  a  perfectly  good  wedding- 
dress  lying  in  the  bottom  of  one's  trunk 
going  to  waste?  I  fished  the  box  out  and 
cut  the  cord.  The  veil  was  lying  right  on 
top.  I  felt  like  tearing  it  into  ribbons  and 
throwing  it  into  the  waste  basket,  but  — 
well,  the  lace  was  really  stunning  and  I 
could  n't  quite  forget  the  size  of  the 
check!  The  dress,  moreover,  was  a 
dream.  It  was  one  of  Madame  L  —  's 
finest  creations,  and  when  I  got  it  on, 
"  though  I  do  say  it  as  should  n't,"  I 
looked  the  part.  When  I  went  down  to 
show  myself  to  La  Senora  Consul,  she  sat 
bolt  upright  in  bed  and  exclaimed, 

"  Virginia,  how  dare  you  ?  I  shall  never 
be  able  to  hold  up  my  head  again  after  the 
people  in  Asuncion  have  seen  that  gown  1  " 

Then  I  suppose  she  thought  of  how  I 
happened  to  have  it  for  all  of  a  sudden  her 
eyes  filled  with  tears.  She  held  out  her 
arms  to  me  and  said,  comfortingly, 

"  I  could  just  kill  that  man  !  " 
[154] 


^Unofficial  &ecretarp 


"  Don't  worry,"  I  said,  laughing.  "  He 
was  long  ago  consigned  to  that  '  innocuous 
desuetude  '  about  which  President  Cleve 
land  used  to  love  to  talk.  As  for  the 
gown,  I  may  just  as  well  wear  it  out.  The 
sentiment  which  surrounded  it  wore  out 
long  ago." 

I  thought  I  had  had  trouble  enough  for 
one  day,  Miladi,  but  the  end  was  not  yet. 
When  the  reception  was  "  in  the  midst  " 
a  chuckle  from  El  Sefior  Consul  attracted 
my  attention  and  I  looked  up.  Coming  in 
at  the  end  of  the  line  I  saw  the  Consul 
from  Buenos  Aires  and  Dr.  Thorne!  I 
caught  my  breath  when  I  saw  him,  Miladi. 
You  see,  I  had  persuaded  myself  that  he 
could  n't  look  right  in  anything  but  white 
flannels  and  a  Panama  hat.  Well,  I 
had  n't  seen  him  in  a  dress  suit.  I  think 
Mr.  Holt  would  have  been  perfectly  happy 
if  he  could  have  managed  to  have  him  come 
upon  me  unaware,  but  fortunately  (for 
me)  I  saw  him  first,  and  by  the  time  he 
reached  our  end  of  the  line  I  had 
[155] 


Unofficial 


(outwardly)  recovered.  Would  that  I 
could  say  as  much  for  him ! 

As  a  general  thing  his  facial  control 
would  put  a  Chinaman  to  shame,  but  it 
played  him  traitor  this  time.  When  he 
looked  up  suddenly  and  saw  me,  there 
came  a  look  into  his  eyes  which  —  well, 
Miladi,  it  was  the  look  which  no  woman 
has  ever  yet  seen  in  a  man's  eyes  and 
failed  to  comprehend.  It  was  only  for 
a  moment.  Then  it  passed.  Shall  I 
see  it  ever  again? 

It  was  very  warm  next  day  but  Dr. 
Thorne  would  not  be  restrained  from 
visiting  the  hospital  so  I  went  also. 
What  a  contrast  between  it  and  the  lit 
tle,  low,  rambling  building  in  Buenos 
Aires  in  which  he  is  so  deeply  interested! 
I  spoke  of  it  and  he  said,  regretfully, 

"  Yes.  It  is  too  bad.  We  have  a  hos 
pital  something  like  this  in  Buenos  Aires, 
the  Carlos  Durand  Hospital.  But  it 
is  for  men.  Nobody  seems  to  think  the 
girls  and  the  babies  are  worth  saving." 
[156] 


Unofficial  &»ecretarp 


It  was  too  warm  all  the  afternoon  to 
do  anything,  but  toward  evening  we  rode 
out  to  the  hills  back  of  Asuncion.  When 
we  reached  the  summit  we  stopped  to 
rest  the  horses  and  I  could  see  that  my 
companion  felt  (as  who  does  not?)  the 
peculiar  charm  of  the  land.  He  dis 
mounted  and  stood  looking  out  across 
the  emerald  alfalfa  fields,  great  slopes  of 
vivid  green  which  began  at  our  very  feet 
and  stretched  away  and  away,  down  into 
the  valley.  From  the  heights  we  could  see 
the  river  flowing  down  to  Buenos  Aires, 
and  beyond  it  the  Gran  Chaco  —  the  happy 
hunting-ground  of  the  Indian.  There  he 
is  the  hereditary  lord  of  the  land.  He  lives 
there  almost  as  undisturbed  to-day  as  he 
did  a  thousand  years  ago.  He  has  still 
his  bow  and  his  arrows.  He  hunts  and 
fishes  when  the  mood  is  upon  him.  What 
man  shall  call  him  unhappy?  They  say 
that  long  ago  the  Jesuits  went  afar  into 
this  country  also,  that  they  built  chap 
els  there  which  now  are  overgrown  with 
[157] 


{Unofficial  &ecretarp 


impenetrable  jungle  —  that  the  Indian  tra 
dition  still  contains  some  memory  of  the 
fathers  although  they  have  long  since 
forgotten  what  they  came  to  teach. 

I  could  see  that  Dr.  Thorne  was  busy 
with  his  thoughts  and  presently  he  said, 
almost  as  though  speaking  to  himself, 

"  What  a  country !  I  had  no  idea  of 
its  beauty.  I  have  been  ten  years  in 
South  America  but  it  seems  to  me  that  I 
was  never  really  in  the  country  before. 
Have  you  learned  to  love  it?"  he  asked 
suddenly,  turning  to  me. 

"  Very  much,"  I  answered.  "  It  is 
like  the  song  of  the  Lorelei.  Once  you 
have  heard  it  you  are  forever  after  under 
the  spell.  When  I  saw  it  first  it  seemed 
ineffably  lonely  and  silent.  Soon  I  learned 
that  it  soothed  and  cheered  because  of  its 
vast  expanse.  Alone,  you  are  not  lonely. 
Silent,  you  hear  its  music." 

From  the  top  of  the  hills  we  watched 
the  sun  go  down.  The  air  was  heavy 
with  the  odor  of  the  tropical  flowers. 
[158] 


Cfje  Unofficial 


Great  flocks  of  green  parrots  were  flying 
swiftly  homeward,  chattering  shrilly  as 
they  went.  The  sunsets  they  have  down 
here  make  you  feel  anything  but  impor 
tant  Miladi.  Every  time  I  see  one  I 
wonder  more  than  ever  why  people  go  gad 
ding  around  in  Europe  chasing  scenery. 
Why  don't  they  come  down  here?  Last 
night  at  sunset  the  hills  seemed  to  catch 
fire.  Great  crimson  gashes  lay  upon  them 
as  long  as  the  afterglow  lingered.  Down 
below,  though,  the  light  faded,  and  the 
hills  wrapped  themselves  in  shadow.  A 
mist  rose  out  of  the  ground.  The  purple 
of  the  falling  night  touched  it  gently  and 
seemed  to  bind  the  earth  and  the  sky  to 
gether  in  harmony.  Softly  the  day  went 
down  into  the  night. 

Whenever  I  watch  the  sunsets  down 
here  I  can't  help  thinking  of  those  strange 
people  who  worship  the  sun  —  who  kneel 
before  it  as  it  rises  and  when  it  goes 
daily  to  rest.  Almost  I  understand.  Is 
not  the  sunset  typical  of  Life  itself  —  of 
[159] 


Unofficial 


Life  when  Love  has  made  Life  what  it 
should  be?  When  the  giving  and  the 
receiving  are  one,  when  the  welding 
has  become  imperceptible,  when  the  sur 
render  of  soul  and  self  unto  the  one 
you  love  becomes  a  matter  of  no  con 
sequence  — are  they  then  not  one  and 
the  same?  Does  not  Love  become  Life? 
Does  not  Life  become  Love?  They 
do.  They  blend  and  lose  themselves  in 
each  other  even  as  the  day  becomes  the 
night. 

As  we  started  homeward  the  moon 
came  up  over  the  hills.  Every  now  and 
then  the  weird  cry  of  a  bird  or  a  beast  in 
the  forest  rang  out  on  the  night  air  — 
the  call  of  the  wild.  It  was  late  when 
we  reached  the  town  and  we  had  ridden 
for  miles  in  silence.  Pasquale  was  asleep 
in  the  patio,  but  roused  himself,  stabled 
the  horses,  and  then  went  sleepily  home 
ward.  I  stole  a  look  at  my  companion's 
face.  It  might  have  been  cut  in  marble. 
All  the  gracious  good-comradeship  had 
[160] 


Unofficial  &ecretarp 


fled.  He  had  wrapped  himself  once  more 
in  that  terrible  self-repression,  and  pres 
ently  he  said, 

"  I  shall  be  leaving  before  you  are 
awake  in  the  morning.  Buenos  noches." 

It  would  have  required  the  assistance 
of  an  ice-pick  and  a  hammer  to  have  taken 
the  coldness  out  of  his  voice  and  manner, 
Miladi.  Every  word  cut  like  a  whip.  I 
was  chilled  —  frozen.  So  with  all  the 
indifference  I  could  assume  I  made  an 
swer  after  his  own  manner. 

"  Oh,"  I  said,  airily.  "  Going  back  to 
morrow?  Ad'ios,  then." 

Miladi,  I  know  now  that  he  spoke  that 
way  because  he  dared  not  trust  himself  to 
do  otherwise.  Too  late  I  realized  it. 
He  looked  up  at  me  quickly,  and  may  I 
never  see  again  that  look  in  a  man's  face! 
I  have  seen  it  somewhere  else,  I  think  — 
perhaps  in  a  painting  by  one  of  the 
Old  Masters  in  the  face  of  Him  who 
was  despised  and  rejected  of  men  — 
nowhere  else.  I  tried  to  undo  it  —  to 


Cfjc  Unofficial  33>ecretarp 

call  him  back  —  but  the  words  would 
not  come.  He  had  turned  and  was 
gone. 

Never  tell  me  again,  Miladi, —  how 
often  you  used  to  say  it !  —  that  whatever 
is  is  right.  It  is  n't  true.  Sometimes 
whatever  is  is  wrong.  I  can  not  imagine 
what  it  is  that  has  persuaded  this  man 
that  happiness  is  not  for  him  —  that  the 
good  things  of  this  life  are  for  others,  but 
whatever  it  is,  it  is  n't  right.  The  longer 
I  live  the  less  I  am  persuaded  that  what 
we  call  right  is  always  right  and  what  we 
call  wrong  is  always  wrong.  Do  we  not 
acknowledge  as  masters  those  men  and 
women  who  have  been  brave  enough, 
strong  enough,  to  make  their  own  right 
and  wrong?  Just  think  who  they  are! 
Did  not  Christ  Himself  do  it?  And  Alex 
ander?  And  after  them  —  how  many! 
Napoleon,  Frederick  the  Great,  Savona 
rola,  Cromwell,  Luther,  Abraham  Lin 
coln —  were  these  afraid  of  what  the 
world  might  say?  Then  why  should  any 
[162] 


Unofficial  ls>ecretarj> 


man  on  earth  heed  the  voice  of  the  raven 
when  it  croaks  "  Thou  shalt  not?  " 

Dr.  Thome's  bearing  is  not  that  of  a 
man  who  has  been  at  fault.  I  can't  shake 
off  the  feeling  that  whatever  it  is,  it  con 
cerns  Aunt  Val.  I  said  as  much  to  Mr. 
Holt  one  day  and  he  asked  me  what  made 
me  think  so.  I  could  not  tell  him  why, 
so  he  laughed  and  said, 

"  Well,  the  gods  gave  to  man  intellect 
and  to  woman  intuition.  The  latter  works 
faster  and  sometimes  gets  better  results." 

This  speech  made  me  think  of  a  teacher 
I  had  once  who  never  lost  an  opportunity 
to  inform  us  that  a  woman  reasoned  with 
her  heart  instead  of  her  head.  Well,  what 
if  she  does? 

But  the  ache  in  my  heart,  Miladi,  —  it 
has  become  a  real  physical  pain.  Will  it 
ever  grow  less,  I  wonder?  Shall  I  ever 
see  him  again,  and  if  so,  will  he  have 
forgotten  ? 

Adios,  Cousin-o'-mine,  adlos.    I  must  to 
bed  —  would  that  I  might  say  to  sleep, 
for  in  sleep  one  forgets. 
[163] 


ASUNCION,  PARAGUAY. 

A  LONG  time  since  I  wrote  you,  Mi- 
ladi,  and  since  then  another  shadow 
has  fallen  across  my  life.  Captain  Starr 
is  dead. 

We  had  been  looking  forward  to  seeing 
him  and  had  thought  it  a  little  strange 
that  we  had  heard  nothing  from  him,  but 
one  morning  when  I  sat  at  my  desk  at  the 
Consulate  the  mail  was  brought  in  and 
El  Senor  Consul  tossed  me  a  letter,  saying, 

"  Ah,  Virginia,  here  you  are.  The 
Dom  Pedro  is  in.  Here  's  a  letter  from 
the  Captain." 

I  opened  it  eagerly  and  cried  out  from 
the  shock  it  gave.  This  is  what  it  said: 

My  dear,  will  you  not  come  down  to  Buenos 
Aires?  The  old  Sea-dog  is  about  to  start  on  his 
last  voyage. 

The  Consul  sprang  to  his  feet. 
"What's  the  matter?"  he  asked. 

I  handed  him  the  letter.    He  took  it  in 
at  a  glance  and  said  quickly, 
[164] 


Unofficial  Secretary 


"  You  must  go.  I  '11  come  myself  just 
as  soon  as  I  can." 

There  was  no  time  for  that  beautiful 
trip  down  the  river.  The  trains  have 
been  running  now  for  some  months  and 
I  was  in  one  and  on  my  way  before  I 
fairly  realized  it. 

Where  is  he  who  has  not  witnessed  the 
cruel  contrast  between  smiling  Nature  and 
a  troubled  heart,  Miladi?  I  thought  as 
I  rode  along  that  the  skies  had  never 
been  so  blue  nor  the  hills  so  green  nor 
the  sun  so  golden.  And  I  thought  again 
of  the  life-long  sorrow  of  the  man  I  was 
hastening  to  see  —  a  man  who  for  more 
than  forty  years  had  been  a  living  exem 
plification  of  the  characteristics  which 
King  Arthur  laid  down  for  his  ideal 
Knight  : 

To  reverence  his  conscience  as  his  king; 
To  glory  in  redressing  human  wrongs; 
To  speak  no  slander,  no,  —  nor  listen  to  it  ; 
To  love  one  only  and  to  cleave  unto  her. 

How    could    the    birds    sing    and    the 


Unofficial  &ecretarp 


flowers  bloom  and  the  sun  shine  when 
such  a  man  was  passing? 

Death  is  in  itself  so  little  a  thing,  Mi- 
ladi.  Too  often  have  I  looked  into  its 
face  to  be  afraid.  The  pebble  which  one 
tosses  carelessly  onto  the  sunny  surface 
of  the  lake  makes  a  great  commotion 
when  it  falls,  but  gradually  the  circles 
widen  and  widen  till  they  lap  against  the 
shore  and  come  not  back  again.  By  the 
time  they  reach  the  water's  edge  the  spot 
where  the  pebble  fell  is  stilled  again.  It 
is  as  though  it  had  not  been  disturbed. 
Well,  when  I  see  how  little  the  commo 
tion  on  the  surface  of  life  caused  by  the 
passing  of  a  great  and  good  man  and  how 
fleeting  the  remembrance  —  what  can  it 
matter  about  poor,  little,  inconsequential 
me? 

For  long  I  have  been  convinced,  Mi- 
ladi,  that  no  man  or  woman  who  is  really 
sane  ever  wished  that  the  dead  could  re 
turn.  I  think  so  many  times  of  the  old 
legend  of  the  Indian  king  whose  beloved 
[166] 


Unofficial 


and  only  son,  the  prince,  the  idol  of  his 
heart  and  the  heir  to  his  throne,  had  died. 
The  old  monarch  grieved  and  grieved  and 
at  last  besought  of  Buddha  that  his  son 
might  be  restored  to  him.  The  god  lis 
tened  to  his  entreaty  and  then  replied, 

"  It  shall  be  as  thy  son  wishes.  Be 
hold  him.  Ask  him  if  he  would  return." 

The  poor  old  king  looked  into  the  glori 
fied  face  of  his  son.  Then  he  shook  his 
head.  He  could  not  ask  him  to  come 
back! 

I  thought  the  journey  down  to  Buenos 
Aires  would  never  end.  In  addition  to 
my  anxiety  for  Captain  Starr  I  could  not 
banish  the  recollection  of  my  last  inter 
view  with  Dr.  Thorne.  Should  I  see  him 
again?  Surely,  if  Captain  Starr  were  ill, 
yet  how  would  he  receive  me  this  time? 

I  need  not  have  worried  about  it. 
When  the  train  pulled  into  the  station  he 
was  there,  and  I  could  not  help  thinking 
of  that  other  morning,  now  nearly  a  year 
ago,  when  I  had  seen  him  first  on  the 
•  [  167  ] 


Unofficial 


Dom  Pedro,  for  I  looked  up  to  find  those 
observant  eyes,  unusually  grave  this  time, 
looking  straight  into  mine,  and  there  was 
in  them  no  shadow  of  resentment. 

Sometimes  I  wish  I  were  a  man,  Mi- 
ladi.  I  envy  them  in  that  they  possess, 
as  women  do  not,  that  greatest  gift  — 
the  ability  to  forgive  and  forget  right 
royally!  There  was  nothing  in  his  man 
ner  to  indicate  that  he  even  remembered 
that  last  night  in  Asuncion.  Quietly  he 
took  possession  of  me,  bag  and  baggage, 
and  put  me  into  the  car. 

"  Captain  Starr  is  at  my  house,"  he 
said.  "  I  could  n't  bear  to  leave  him  ei 
ther  at  the  hospital  or  the  hotel.  He 
seemed  so  lonely." 

"Is  he  very  ill?"  I  asked,  when  I 
could  find  my  tongue. 

"  Very.  His  condition  is  grave,  but  he 
does  n't  look  ill.  He  is  not  in  bed,  but 
you  will  see  a  great  change  in  him.  Try 
not  to  notice  it,  will  you?  Don't  let  him 
see  that  you  are  troubled  about  him." 
[168] 


Unofficial 


Unnecessary  advice  to  one  who  was  for 
so  long  forced  to  keep  cheerful  in  the  face 
of  sickness  and  suffering.  I  had  done  it 
before.  I  knew  I  could  do  it  again. 

He  was  in  the  doorway  watching  for 
my  coming  as  eagerly  as  a  child.  How 
changed  he  was  —  but  how  beautiful  a 
change  !  His  hair  was  quite  white  now. 
All  the  ruggedness  in  his  once  sea-tanned 
face  had  given  way  to  a  rare  and  won 
derful  softness  which  seemed  to  illumine 
it.  It  was  as  though  one  had  placed  a 
lamp  behind  his  head.  He  did  not  speak 
for  a  moment  and  then  said,  simply, 

"  You  were  good  to  come." 

"  Well,"  I  responded  as  blithely  as  pos 
sible,  "  Mahomet  would  n't  come  to  the 
mountain,  so  —  you  know  the  rest  !  " 

He  smiled  and  brightened  still  further 
when  I  told  him  that  the  Consul  was  com 
ing  down  in  a  day  or  so  and  that  he  would 
see  him,  too.  Alas,  I  feared  that  he 
would  have  to  make  the  days  very  few. 

Aunt  Val  was  glad  to  see  me  and  even 
[169] 


^Unofficial 


Mercedes,  the  austere,  unbent  when  I 
threw  her  a  smile.  After  dinner  we  all 
tried  to  keep  cheerful  but  it  was  hard 
work.  At  last  I  said, 

"  Does  no  one  ever  use  this  beautiful 
piano?  May  I  sing  for  you?  " 

Aha,  Senor  Doctor!  For  once  I  had 
struck  a  chord  which  vibrated  and  re 
sponded  to  my  touch.  He  sprang  up  and 
opened  the  piano,  saying  eagerly, 

"  Why  did  n't  you  tell  me  you  could 
sing?" 

"  Why  did  n't  you  ask  me?  "  I  laughed. 

He  threw  himself  back  in  his  chair  and 
never  stirred  for  an  hour.  I  had  never 
felt  less  like  singing  in  my  life,  Miladi, 
but  the  most  inexplainable  thing  in  the 
world  to  me  is  this.  Give  the  woman  a 
voice,  and  the  nearer  the  heart  is  to 
breaking  the  more  beautifully  she  sings. 
Of  all  the  emotions  of  the  human  heart 
only  two  will  not  be  driven  forth  in  music. 
They  are  Anger  and  Fear.  These  we  can 
not  sing. 

[170] 


(Unofficial 


When  the  music  stopped  Captain  Starr 
retired.  He  laid  his  hand  on  my  head  for 
a  moment  and  said, 

"  Your  mother  used  to  sing.  She  sang 
always  in  French.  Do  you?" 

"  Oh,  yes,"  I  answered.  "  To-morrow 
I  '11  sing  French  songs  for  you." 

We  lingered  a  little  longer,  speaking 
of  the  music  we  hear  down  here,  es 
pecially  among  the  country  people,  the 
natives  they  call  them  —  just  as  though 
the  people  of  the  city  were  not  native  too. 
The  songs  they  sing  are  in  the  minor  key 
and  in  that  peculiar  broken  time  heard 
nowhere  else  except  in  Spain.  Some  time 
during  the  eight  centuries  when  Spain  was 
the  dominion  of  the  Moors  that  peculiar 
Spanish  music  was  born.  The  broken 
time  is  truly  Spanish.  The  minor  in  it 
came  with  the  Moors.  Don't  you  remem 
ber  that  place  in  Spain  at  the  foot  of  the 
Alpuj  arras,  Miladi,  where,  it  is  said,  after 
the  Fall  of  Granada,  Boabdil  looked  back 
on  the  beautiful  city  from  which  he  had 


{Unofficial  &ecretarp 


been  driven  and  burst  into  tears?  And 
his  mother  said  to  him  scornfully, 

"  Well  may  'st  thou  weep  like  a  woman 
for  what  thou  could  'st  not  defend  like  a 
man!" 

They  call  this  spot  El  ultimo  suspiro 
del  Moro,  and  I  have  always  thought  that 
that  name  ought  to  be  applied  to  the 
Spanish  music  —  the  last  sigh  of  the 
Moor. 

Dr.  Thorne  went  to  see  that  Captain 
Starr  was  comfortable  and  to  say  good 
night  to  Aunt  Val,  a  thing  he  never  for 
gets.  I  had  not  intended  to  linger  till  he 
returned  but  I  happened  to  glance  at  the 
table  and  I  was  lost.  American  maga 
zines  —  just  as  sure  as  I  live!  I  picked 
one  up  and  promptly  forgot  the  world, 
the  flesh,  and  —  the  hour.  When  he  re 
turned,  however,  it  was  evident  that  he 
had  not  forgotten  the  music.  He  was 
still  under  the  spell,  and  presently  he 
said, 

"  I  have  asked  you  before  why  you 
[172] 


Unofficial  &ecretarp 


came  to  South  America.  With  your  tal 
ents,  with  that  voice  —  you  don't  belong 
down  here." 

We  live  but  once,  Miladi,  and  there  is 
a  limit  to  things!  I  presume  I  had 
reached  just  that  epoch  in  my  dissipated 
career  when  a  word  was  just  one  word  too 
much.  I  tossed  the  book  on  the  table  and 
said,  like  a  spoiled  child, 

"  Oh,  I  don't  belong  anywhere  on 
earth!" 

He  started  to  answer  but  checked  him 
self.  Then  he  said  softly  without  look 
ing  at  me  again, 

"  Buenos  noches." 

Idiocy,  thy  name  is  woman!  I  went  to 
bed  and  kept  a  perfectly  good  pillow  nice 
and  damp  all  night. 

Captain  Starr  seemed  cheerful  next 
morning.  He  arose  a  little  before  noon 
and  came  into  the  living-room.  He 
seemed  to  want  to  talk  about  his  earlier 
days  —  days  when  he  and  my  father  and 
El  Senor  Consul  were  together  at  Harvard, 
[173] 


days  when  he  knew  my  mother  first  — 
ah,  it  was  of  her,  Miladi,  that  he  most 
wished  to  talk.  His  love  for  her,  to  me 
a  painful  subject,  had  been  at  once  the 
grief  and  the  glory  of  his  life.  He  had 
met  her  first  on  shipboard.  He  was  re 
turning  from  a  summer  in  Europe  just  be 
fore  he  entered  college.  She  was  coming 
with  her  parents  to  find  a  new  home  in  a 
strange  land. 

So  I  sat  down  by  him  and  let  him  say  all 
that  he  wished  about  those  (to  him) 
happy  days.  He  told  of  her  bewilderment 
when  they  landed  in  New  York  and  even 
laughed  a  little  when  he  recalled  her  strug 
gle  with  the  English  language.  He  him 
self  had  made  her  acquainted  with  my 
father  and  he  had  never  blamed  her  that 
she  had  loved  him  instead  of  himself. 

Then  he  wanted  me  to  sing  —  in 
French,  and  after  I  had  sung  everything 
I  could  think  of,  I  found  myself,  more 
from  force  of  habit  than  anything  else,  I 
think,  singing  this: 

[i74] 


Unofficial  £>ecretar$> 


Andante. 


t=t 


pp     L/es  am   -  ours...        ir-re-al-is  -    - 


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i*a«-*-»-*- 


deles!         C'est        en         vain. 


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1=1 


[175] 


Unofficial 


I  had  sung  but  a  line  or  two  when  he 
said  to  me  suddenly, 

"Did  she  sing  that?" 

I  saw  what  a  mistake  I  had  made,  Mi- 
ladi,  but  I  have  grown  so  to  love  the  lit 
tle  song  myself.  Did  my  beautiful 
mother,  I  wonder,  realize  it  as  much  as 
I  do? 

The  love  that  's  unrequited 
Is  the  only  love  that  's  true  ! 

Yet  I  answered  Captain  Starr's  ques 
tion  truthfully, 

"  Yes,  often.     Very  often." 

He  did  not  speak  at  once,  but  in  a 
moment  he  said,  almost  under  his  breath, 

"Then  she  knew!" 

He  was  lying  down.  I  went  over  and 
sat  by  him  and  tried  to  turn  his  thoughts 
to  something  else.  Presently  he  sighed 
and  closed  his  eyes.  He  was  gone.  He 
had  slipped  away  so  quietly  that  although 
I  was  looking  in  his  face,  I  saw  not  the 
passing. 

[176] 


Unofficial 


I  had  just  heard  Dr.  Thorne  come  in, 
and  called  to  him.  Almost  the  same  mo 
ment,  it  seemed,  Mercedes  was  answer 
ing  a  ring  at  the  door  and  I  heard  the 
voice  of  Mr.  Holt  in  the  passage.  He 
had  come  too  late. 

"What  was  it?"  he  was  asking  the 
doctor. 

"  Oh,  —  an  aneurism,  —  the  heart,  you 
know." 

An  aneurism!  That  word  called  up 
memories.  Once,  a  long  time  ago,  I  asked 
a  brilliant  young  doctor  whom  I  knew 
what  that  word  meant.  He  thought  I 
was  joking,  so  he  said,  laughingly, 

"Aneurism?  Why,  —  it  means  a 
broken  heart!  " 

I  could  n't  help  thinking  of  it  now. 
Here  was  surely  a  case  where  there  was 
more  truth  than  humor  in  his  definition. 
The  same  thought  must  have  come  to  Mr. 
Holt  also.  He  stood  looking  down  into 
the  face  of  his  dead  friend,  and  in  a  mo 
ment  he  said,  thoughtfully, 
[177] 


ZHnofficial  &ecretarp 


"  An  aneurism.  Well,  that  's  as  good 
a  name  for  it  as  any." 

When  all  else  had  been  arranged  there 
came  the  question  as  to  where  Captain 
Starr  should  be  buried.  I  fled  to  the  gar 
den.  To  lay  him  away  down  here,  so  far 
from  his  own  country  and  his  people  — 
I  could  n't  bear  to  think  of  it.  But  I  sup 
posed  that  no  other  arrangement  would 
be  possible  and  so  meant  to  acquiesce  in 
whatever  plans  the  Consul  saw  fit  to  make. 
Presently  he  came  into  the  garden  and 
said, 

"  Where  would  you  like  him  to  lie, 
Virginia?  I  am  going  to  leave  it  all  to 
you." 

"  In  Washington." 

He  hesitated  for  a  moment,  and  then, 
Miladi,  I  told  him  —  told  him  all  that 
Captain  Starr  had  told  me  on  that  morn 
ing  when  I  landed  in  South  America,  all 
that  he  had  said  to  me  in  the  hour  of  his 
death.  In  a  way,  of  course,  Mr.  Holt 
had  always  known  of  it,  but  not  until  now 
[178] 


^Inofficial  &ectetarp 


had  he  realized  what  a  tragedy  life  had 
been  for  his  friend. 

'*  Very  well,  my  dear,"  he  said. 
"  Leave  it  all  to  me." 

It  was  no  easy  task.  The  red  tape  to 
be  wound  up,  the  suspicious  Spanish  of 
ficials  to  be  conciliated,  the  health  depart 
ment  to  be  managed,  (Dr.  Thorne,  of 
course,  helped  us  there)  the  superstitious 
sailors  to  be  deceived  —  it  was  only  be 
cause  Uncle  Sam  the  Powerful  was  at 
his  back  that  El  Senor  Consul's  efforts 
were  at  last  crowned  with  success.  Under 
cover  of  the  night  the  thing  was  accom 
plished.  Next  day  a  very  sorrowful  lit 
tle  party  stood  on  the  pier  and  watched 
the  Dom  Pedro  sail  away,  but  Captain 
Starr  was  on  board! 

In  fancy  I  followed  the  vessel  every 
mile  of  the  way,  Miladi.  I  would  say  to 
myself,  "  She  must  be  now  in  the  Bay  of 
Rio  —  now  stopping  at  Santos.  This 
morning  she  ought  to  be  off  Bahia.  To 
day  she  will  touch  at  the  Barbadoes,"  and 
[179] 


^Unofficial 


at  last,  one  day,  I  said,  "  Surely  she  must 
be  in  the  harbor  at  New  York." 

More  than  a  month  went  by  and  the 
days  were  shod  with  lead.  El  Senor 
Consul  tried  to  keep  me  busy  but  I  was 
restless  and  unstrung.  At  last  one  morn 
ing  I  looked  up  from  my  desk  to  see  him 
sitting  idly  at  his  own,  his  hands  clasped 
behind  his  head.  His  back  was  turned 
partly  toward  me  and  he  was  looking  out 
of  the  window.  I  heard  him  clear  his 
throat,  and  presently  he  took  off  his 
glasses  and  rubbed  them  with  his  hand 
kerchief.  A  little  later  he  rose  and  laid 
two  letters  on  my  desk. 

"  Read  these,  Virginia,"  he  said,  "  and 
be  at  peace.  This  one  first." 

I  took  it  up  and  saw  that  it  had  been 
written  by  Captain  Starr  at  the  same  time 
that  he  had  written  me  to  come  to  Buenos 
Aires.  For  some  reason  it  did  not  reach 
the  Consulate  till  after  I  had  gone.  As 
soon  as  Mr.  Holt  received  it  he  had 
started  also.  It  was  written  In  short, 
[180] 


Unofficial 


crisp    sentences,   just   as   he   would   have 
spoken  them.     This  is  what  it  said: 

I  am  all  in,  Holt.  I  may  not  see  you  again. 
I  have  deposited  with  Gifford,  Barnes  and 
Holden  in  Washington  a  hundred  thousand  dol 
lars  in  Government  bonds.  They  are  for  Vir 
ginia.  I  was  never  glad  before  that  I  had  money. 
I  never  cared  about  it,  but  it  came.  For  the 
last  twenty  years  every  time  I  got  back  to  Wash 
ington  somebody  ran  up  and  handed  me  a  check. 
Holden  is  Virginia's  solicitor.  He  will  look 
after  her  interests.  Notify  him. 

I  would  look  into  your  face  again  if  I  might, 
olH  friend,  before  I  go. 

The  other  letter  was  from  Mr.  Holden, 
and  said: 

HON.  ARNOLD  HOLT, 
U.  S.  CONSULATE,  ASUNCION,  PARAGUAY. 

My  dear  Mr.  Holt: 

I  have  your  letter  of  October  first.  Will  you 
say  to  Miss  Leigh  that  I  have  seen  to  it  per 
sonally  that  her  wishes  were  carried  out  to  the 
letter  in  regard  to  the  late  Captain  Leonard 
Starr.  He  is  buried  on  her  lot  in  Arlington 
just  north  of  where  her  mother  lies. 

The  bonds  are  in  our  vaults  awaiting  her 
[181] 


Unofficial  £>ecretarp 


instructions.    Please  express  to  her  my  pleasure  in 
being  able  to  serve  her  and  believe  me 
Very  truly  yours, 

RICHARD  HOLDEN. 
WASHINGTON,  D.  C. 

As  I  read  a  great  weight  slipped  from 
me,  Miladi.  The  anxiety  of  the  last  few 
weeks  was  over.  All  was  just  as  I  had 
wished  it  to  be,  and  I  am  neither  afraid 
nor  ashamed  to  look  the  action  in  the 
face.  One  day  I  shall  enter,  also,  as  a 
pupil  in  the  Great  School,  and  doubtless 
I  shall  re-learn  many  things,  but  surely  I 
shall  find  that  the  God  of  Things  As 
They  Are  has  made  right  there  the  things 
which  in  this  life  "  gang  aft  aglee." 
Adios. 

ASUNCION,  PARAGUAY. 

JUST  a  year  ago  to-day  since  I  sailed 
from  New  York,   Miladi,  —  a   year 
which  has  seemed  long  in  passing  but  is 
short  to  look  back  upon. 
[182] 


Unofficial  g>ecrctarp 


We  are  going  on  a  vacation,  Miladi,  so 
don't  be  surprised  at  the  postmark  on 
the  next  letter.  We  all  found  ourselves 
depressed  after  the  death  of  our  friend. 
Even  the  Consul's  sunny  nature  has  been 
shadowy.  He  has  been  actually  low- 
spirited,  and  I  know  that  it  is  because  he 
can  not  help  thinking  that  of  that  dear, 
old,  triangular  friendship  at  Harvard  only 
one  angle  remains.  The  long  and  close 
intimacy  which  existed  between  the  Con 
sul  and  my  father  existed  also  between 
Mr.  Holt  and  Captain  Starr,  although 
with  it  was  always  the  undercurrent  of 
sadness  which  the  circumstances  had 
wrought. 

My  own  depression  was  due  partly  to 
a  sense  of  personal  loss  and  partly  — 
don't  laugh  —  to  the  money  which  Cap 
tain  Starr  had  left  me.  What  a  distorted 
idea  we  have  of  riches,  Miladi!  To  me 
there  is  nothing  in  all  the  world  so  pa 
thetic  as  the  poverty  of  wealth.  It  can 
buy  only  the  material  things  of  life. 
[183] 


Unofficial  &ecretar 


We  have  come  to  look  upon  Success  as 
synonymous  with  dollars  and  cents.  What 
nonsense  !  Was  n't  Michelangelo,  then, 
a  success?  And  Shakespeare?  These 
never  had  money.  Poor  Millet  starved 
at  Barbizon;  he  had  not  even  the  means 
to  go  to  see  his  dying  mother  —  yet  he 
painted  "  The  Angelus."  Who  shall  say 
that  he  was  unsuccessful?  Money  has  its 
place  in  the  world.  It  is  necessary  to  our 
civilization,  but,  Miladi,  sometimes  I  wish 
I  could  throw  back  my  head  and  let  out 
a  ringing,  mocking  laugh  which  could  be 
heard  to  the  stars  when  I  think  of  the 
things  which  money  can  not  buy  I 

I  remember  telling  father  once  that  he 
had  brought  us  up  to  be  perfect  geese  — 
that  we  knew  a  little  of  everything  and 
not  very  much  of  anything.  He  laughed 
and  said,  "  Well,  it  might  be  worse."  I 
did  not  see  then  how  it  could,  but  I  am 
beginning  to  see  now,  Miladi,  are  n't  you? 
When  you  look  back  over  your  child 
hood,  do  you  not  realize  that  all  the 
[184] 


lessons  we  learned  from  books  or  at  school 
amounted  to  very  little?  I  do.  If  I  know 
anything  at  all  it  is  what  I  learned  from 
him.  He  taught  me  all  I  know.  Now 
there  is  never  a  day  goes  by  that  I  am  not 
reminded  of  some  word  of  his,  no  mat 
ter  what  the  particular  phase  of  life  pre 
sented  at  the  moment  may  be.  One  at  a 
time,  with  no  undue  emphasis,  always  in 
love  and  kindliness  —  like  the  constant 
dropping  that  wears  away  the  stone,  un 
consciously  his  thoughts  wrote  themselves 
upon  my  own,  indelibly,  ineffaceably, 
permanently. 

You  see,  Miladi,  I  was  n't  blessed  with 
your  poise  and  self-reliance  when  I  was 
a  child.  I  effervesced  upon  the  slightest 
provocation,  but  Daddy  never  failed  to 
come  to  the  rescue  at  the  psychological 
moment.  We  were  possessed  of  the 
goods  the  gods  provide  in  those  days,  you 
know,  and  one  of  his  gravest  fears  for 
me  was  that  I  might  forget  that  there 
were  those  less  fortunate  than  myself. 
[185] 


?Hnoffmal 


Well,  every  day  since  I  have  had  this 
money,  I  have  heard  his  voice,  as  of  old, 
saying  to  me,  one  at  a  time,  such  things 
as  these: 

"  Money  is  powerful,  my  dear,  but  you 
must  not  forget  —  there  is  a  distinct  dead 
line  across  which  it  can  not  go." 

"  I  want  you  to  think  of  the  real  things 
of  life,  my  dear,  the  things  which  make  life 
worth  the  living.  Nature  has  wisely  put  it 
beyond  the  power  of  money  to  buy  these." 

"  All  the  money  in  the  world  can  not 
bring  you  happiness,  little  daughter,  —  no, 
nor  health,  nor  loyalty,  nor  friendship." 

"  The  divinest  element  in  all  humanity 
is  love,  my  dear.  God  made  it  so.  But 
if  it  comes  at  all  it  comes  to  rich  and  poor 
alike.  It  can  not  be  bought  —  nor  sold." 

"  I  hope  you  may  always  look  at  money 
in  its  true  light.  It  is  mighty  —  not  al 
mighty.  It  has  great  powers  for  good. 
It  can  feed  the  hungry,  warm  the  freez 
ing,  help  to  heal  the  sick.  But  the  eternal 
realities  of  life,  my  dear,  the  things  of 
[186] 


Unofficial  g>ecretarp 


mind  and  heart  and  soul  —  these  defy  a 
check-book." 

Isn't  it  all  true,  Miladi?  If  one  went 
on  indefinitely,  it  would  be  always  the 
same.  Have  you  not  heard  of  men  buy 
ing  justice?  No  man  on  earth  ever  did  it. 
He  may  have  bought  the  judge.  One  may 
buy  a  lawyer  if  he  's  willing  to  be  sold, 
but  not  the  law.  Do  we  not  hear  of  men 
who  have  sold  their  honor?  Fudge! 
Whenever  I  hear  that,  Miladi,  I  always 
think  of  the  knight  in  "  As  You  Like  It  " 
who  swore  by  his  honor  that  the  pancakes 
were  good  and  the  mustard  was  naught. 
"  But,"  quoth  Touchstone  the  Fool,  "  if 
you  swear  by  that  which  is  not,  you  are 
not  forsworn.  No  more  was  this  knight 
swearing  by  his  honor  for  he  never  had 
any.  If  he  did  he  had  sworn  it  all  away 
before  ever  he  saw  those  pancakes  or  that 
mustard."  So,  it  is.  When  the  buyer  of 
honor  examines  his  purchase  he  finds  that 
he  has  been  cheated.  The  package  con 
tains  dishonor. 

[187] 


Unofficial  £>ecretarp 


I  have  thought  about  it  all  so  much, 
Miladi.  What  care  I  for  money  when  it 
will  not  obtain  for  me  the  thing  I  want 
most  on  earth?  And  even  if  it  were  pos 
sible  to  buy  it,  would  not  one  scorn  above 
all  things  a  love  that  could  be  bought? 
The  knowledge  that  it  came  not  volun 
tarily  would  scorch  and  sear  one's  soul  till 
it  became  an  arid,  dusty  desert  with  no 
oases  in  it  anywhere.  But  then,  —  I  had 
the  money.  Nothing  could  alter  that  fact. 
It  was  mine.  So  I  tried  to  forget  the 
things  it  could  not  buy  and  to  remember 
those  that  it  could,  and  of  the  latter  this 
spoke  loudest: 

"  It  can  feed  the  hungry,  warm  the 
freezing,  help  to  heal  the  sick." 

Do  you  want  to  know  what  I  did,  Mi 
ladi  ?  I  can  see  you  shake  your  head,  you 
dear,  cautious  creature,  but  it  is  too  late 
now.  No  one  knows  me  as  well  as  you 
and  there  is  one  respect  in  which  I  have 
not  changed.  Sometimes  it  takes  me  a 
long  time  to  make  up  my  mind  to 
[188] 


Unofficial  &ecretarp 


do  a.  thing,  but  once  I  have  decided,  I 
never  open  the  case  for  a  re-hearing.  I 
wrote  Mr.  Holden  asking  if  he  could 
turn  seventy-five  thousand  dollars'  worth 
of  the  bonds  into  money  for  me.  He 
cabled  an  affirmative  reply  and  shortly 
afterward  the  draft  arrived.  Then  I  was 
indeed  puzzled.  How  was  I  to  get  the 
money  deposited  to  Dr.  Thome's  credit 
without  having  to  answer  questions? 
That  I  accomplished  it  was  due  partly  to 
luck,  partly  to  the  fact  that  they  do  things 
differently  down  here.  There  is  no  Ameri 
can  bank  in  Buenos  Aires.  If  there  had 
been  it  would  have  been  all  off.  An 
American  bank  employee  would  have 
made  me  tell  my  age,  nationality,  and  who 
my  grandfather  was.  But  the  only  bank  I 
knew  in  Buenos  Aires  is  as  English  as 
Johnny  Bull  himself  and  I  was  n't  brought 
up  in  dear,  old,  diplomatic  Washington 
for  nothing.  I  wrote  a  letter  stating  that 
the  bearer,  acting  as  messenger  for  some 
one  who  did  not  wish  his  identity  made 
[189! 


Unofficial  &ecretarp 


known,  would  deposit  seventy-five  thou 
sand  dollars  in  the  English  bank  for  the 
purpose  of  building  a  Hospital  for  Women 
and  Children  in  Buenos  Aires,  the  deposit 
to  be  made  to  the  credit  of  Dr.  Rexford 
Thorne  under  whose  supervision  the  donor 
wished  the  hospital  to  be  built.  Would 
the  bank  kindly  notify  Dr.  Thorne  to  this 
effect? 

If  that  Englishman  had  had  any  idea 
how  scared  I  was  he  would  have  moved 
a  little  faster.  I  did  n't  know  just  what 
was  going  to  happen  next,  but  they  ac 
cepted  both  the  letter  and  the  deposit  with 
out  question,  said  they  would  get  Dr. 
Thome's  receipt  for  the  latter  which  I 
might  call  for  in  a  few  days,  and  the  deed 
was  accomplished.  And  now,  Miladi,  no 
one  knows  but  just  you  and  me,  and  for 
the  sake  of  the  old  days  when  you  shared 
many  a  secret  with  me,  keep  this  one  also. 
It  was  not  because  I  deserved  it  that  means 
was  given  me  to  do  this  thing,  but  if  it 
shall  help  in  ever  so  small  a  measure  to 
[190] 


^Unofficial  g>ecretarp 


eradicate  the  cancer  which  is  gnawing  at 
the  moral  vitals  of  South  America  —  if  it 
keeps  but  one  young  girl  from  following 
in  the  footsteps  of  her  betrayed  sister,  if 
it  saves  the  life  of  only  one  helpless,  de 
serted  child,  last  of  all,  if  it  makes  him 
happy  —  then,  surely,  Miladi,  I  shall 
draw  interest  on  seventy-five  thousand  dol 
lars  at  a  hundred  per  cent  for  the  rest  of 
my  natural  life. 

I  just  hate  that  old  French  philosopher 
who  said,  "  Quand  on  n'a  pas  ce  qu'on 
aime,  il  faut  aimer  ce  qu'on  a."  He 
did  n't  know  a  thing  about  it.  I  would  a 
thousand  times  rather  love  the  man  I  can 
not  have  than  to  have  the  man  I  do  not 
love.  Who  wouldn't?  But,  Miladi,  if 
he  ever  finds  me  out  I  '11  have  to  come 
back  to  Washington!  South  America 
won't  be  large  enough  to  hold  me. 

As  I  have  told  you,  we  are  going  on  a 

vacation.     After  the  manner  of  men,  El 

Sefior  Consul  tried  to  conceal  his  depres 

sion  and  to  fight  it  out  by  himself,  but  the 

[191] 


ZBJnofftctal 


effort  was  apparent  and  the  weight  too 
heavy  to  be  lightly  cast  aside.  So,  one 
evening  last  week  while  we  sat  on  the 
porch,  a  telegram  was  brought  him.  He 
heaved  a  long  sigh  of  relief  and  said, 

"  How  long  will  it  take  you  two  girls 
to  get  ready  to  go  on  a  vacation  with 
me?" 

We  both  spoke  at  once.  "  About  two 
minutes,"  said  La  Senora  Consul.  "  I  can 
go  right  now,"  I  said. 

He  laughed  at  our  enthusiasm.  "  Well, 
I  '11  give  you  till  Thursday  to  get  ready.  I 
must  arrange  for  the  work  with  Armstrong 
before  I  can  get  away."  He  had  cabled  to 
Washington  for  leave  of  absence  and  it 
had  just  arrived. 

We  fell  to  discussing  plans  as  to  where 
we  should  go.  La  Senora  Consul  said, 
"  anywhere,"  but  as  for  me,  you  know, 
Miladi,  what  a  thirst  I  have  for  explora 
tion.  All  the  navigators  from  Christopher 
Columbus  down  to  Dr.  Cook  have  n't  a 
thing  on  me  when  it  comes  to  a  desire  to 
[  192] 


Unofficial 


see  strange  lands.  We  have  two  months 
at  our  disposal.  I  was  wild  to  go 
all  the  way  around  the  continent  — 
from  Buenos  Aires  down  to  Cape 
Horn,  up  the  western,  coast  to  Pana 
ma,  across  the  Caribbean  Sea  to  the  At 
lantic,  and  then  back  again  to  Buenos 
Aires.  The  Consul  rather  favored  my 
plan  till  we  found,  alas,  that  it  would  n't 
work  !  There  is  no  way  to  get  back.  One 
can  go  from  Panama  across  the  Caribbean 
to  the  Barbadoes,  it  is  true,  but  none  of 
the  southbound  steamers  stop  there.  Only 
those  going  north  touch  the  islands.  This 
meant  that  when  we  got  as  far  as  the  Bar 
badoes  we  could  not  get  back  to  Buenos 
Aires  without  going  first  to  New  York. 
What  do  you  think  of  that?  Reluctantly 
we  gave  it  up  and  at  last  agreed  to  leave 
it  to  Mr.  Holt.  We  assured  him  that  we 
would  be  "  good  fellows."  If  he  chose 
to  go  abroad  we  would  go  along. 

So  to-morrow  we  start.     There  is  an 
element  of  delightful  uncertainty  in  our 


Unofficial  &ecretarp 


movements.  Mrs.  Holt  and  I  have  n't  a 
ghost  of  an  idea  where  we  're  going,  but 
we  're  off  !  Adios. 

BUENOS  AIRES,  ARGENTINA,  S.  A. 

VT'OU  may  think  when  you  see  this  post 
mark  that  we  have  n't  gone  very 
far,  Miladi,  but  then,  we  have  only  started, 
and  since  I  wrote  you  I  have  had  the  time 
of  my  life!  I  gathered  from  a  few  re 
marks  which  Mr.  Holt  let  drop  from  time 
to  time  before  we  left  Asuncion  that  he 
thought  that  this  would  be  an  excellent 
opportunity  for  him  to  see  what  he  could 
of  the  country  down  here  —  to  look  into 
its  commerce  and  industries,  to  visit  some 
of  the  ranches,  coffee  plantations,  and  the 
Legations.  So  when  we  got  this  far  we 
made  our  first  stop. 

I  must  tell  you  before   I   go   farther, 

though,  that  the  day  before  we  were  to 

leave  Paraguay,  Mrs.  British  Consul  got 

wind  of  the  plan.     She  flew  down  to  our 

[  194] 


Unofficial 


place  and  with  tears  in  her  eyes  begged 
that  she  might  go  with  us.  We  were  not 
sorry  to  have  her,  so  we  became  a  party 
of  four.  Well,  on  the  day  we  started,  our 
little  party  arrived  at  the  station  first  and 
while  the  Consul  was  attending  to  some 
necessary  details  I  looked  out  and  saw 
Mrs.  British  Consul  (followed  by  Mr. 
B.  C.)  approaching.  Miladi,  I  was  like 
Bre'r  Rabbit  —  "I  jes'  hatter  go  off  to  my 
laffin'-place  !  "  There  was  n't  a  thing 
wrong  with  her  appearance,  of  course. 
The  travelling  suit  and  cap  she  wore  were 
altogether  suitable  and  in  good  taste,  but 
they  were  so  English  that  it  was  painful. 
As  to  her  boots  —  well,  Miladi,  you 
would  n't  be  caught  with  them  on  at  your 
own  funeral.  Nevertheless,  as  I  have  told 
you  before,  Mrs.  B.  C.  is  charming,  and 
one  can  not  help  envying  the  English 
women  their  wholesomeness.  At  home 
they  live  largely  in  the  open.  They  ride  and 
hunt  and  climb  the  hills  and  possess  splen 
did  physical  strength.  On  the  morning 
[195] 


Unofficial  &ecretarp 


we  started,  however,  Mrs.  British  Con 
sul  had  on  her  face  a  do-or-die  expression 
which  moved  Mr.  Holt  to  remark  that  he 
felt  sure  she  would  come  back  either  with 
her  shield  or  upon  it.  You  used  to  tell  me 
sometimes,  Miladi,  that  I  had  the  pro 
phetic  vision!  I  never  believed  it  before. 
Now,  however,  I  have  the  feeling  that 
when  we  return  to  Paraguay,  weary  and 
footsore  after  our  two  months'  jaunt,  Mrs. 
British  Consul  will  march  at  the  head  of 
the  procession  with  flags  flying! 

All  of  us  had  had  the  trip  down  the 
river  so  we  took  the  train  to  Buenos  Aires. 
I  was  wild  to  be  on  the  salt  Atlantic  again 
and  supposed  that  we  should  go  directly 
on  board,  but  here  we  had  surprise  num 
ber  one. 

The  strangest  thing  in  all  this  continent, 
Miladi,  is  that  the  moment  you  are  out 
side  of  the  city  you  are  as  definitely  in  the 
country  as  though  the  city  were  a  thou 
sand  miles  away.  There  is  a  lack  of  a 
rural  population  which  is  astounding. 
[196] 


<Efje  Unofficial 


When  one  sees  the  crowded  conditions  in 
Buenos  Aires  he  naturally  supposes  that 
back  of  the  city  he  would  find  a  large 
country  population,  but  this  is  a  mistake. 
The  moment  you  leave  the  city  behind  you, 
you  are  "  far  from  the  madding  crowd." 
There  are  only  seven  million  people  in  all 
Argentina,  and  a  million  and  a  quarter  of 
them  are  in  Buenos  Aires.  The  great, 
rolling  pampa  begins  at  the  city's  edge  and 
stretches  away  and  away,  until  you  per 
suade  yourself  that  its  extent  is  limitless. 
One  of  the  largest  and  finest  estancias 
(ranches)  in  Argentina  is  owned  by  an 
English  Land  Syndicate  and  is  not  far 
from  Buenos  Aires.  Mr.  British  Consul 
had  paved  the  way  for  us  to  visit  it,  so  we 
changed  cars  here  and  rode  all  night 
across  the  plain.  The  overseer,  a  fine 
young  Englishman,  met  us  the  next  morn 
ing  at  the  nearest  station  (thirty  miles 
away,  however)  with  a  machine.  The 
automobile  has  evidently  come  to  South 
America  to  stay.  It  is  omnipresent. 
[197] 


Miladi,  I  thought  I  knew  the  meaning 
of  the  words  vastness,  immensity,  solitude, 
but  I  did  not.  Can  you  believe  it  when  I 
tell  you  that  you  could  lay  the  State  of 
Virginia  down  in  this  ranch  and  not  be 
able  to  find  it?  As  we  rode  along,  miles 
and  miles  of  pampa  (grassy  plain)  cov 
ered  with  alfalfa,  green  and  beautiful, 
stretched  in  all  directions.  Enormous 
herds  of  cattle,  horses,  and  sheep  were 
feeding  wherever  they  willed. 

The  positions  of  responsibility  on  the 
ranch  are  all  held  by  young  Englishmen. 
The  actual  herding  of  the  cattle  is  done 
by  the  cowboys  —  gauchos,  they  call  them. 
We  had  a  noonday  dinner  at  the  hacienda 
(ranch  house)  and  afterward  Mr.  Hard 
ing,  the  overseer,  placed  himself  at  our 
disposal.  He  asked  if  we  rode  horseback. 
Of  course  we  did.  So  in  a  little  while  we 
were  all  mounted  and  riding  toward  the 
corral,  about  seven  miles  distant,  where  a 
recently  received  importation  of  cattle 
from  England  was  to  be  seen. 
[198] 


Unofficial  &ecretarp 


Ah,  but  they  think  in  large  figures  down 
here,  Miladi  !  It  is  enough  to  take  one's 
breath  away.  When  we  reached  the  place, 
a  magnificent  bull  lifted  his  head  above 
the  enclosure  and  looked  at  us  somewhat 
belligerently.  Mr.  Harding  rode  up  and 
rubbed  his  head,  however,  and  said, 

"  He  's  a  splendid  fellow  —  the  best  of 
the  lot  this  time.  It  cost  the  owners 
eighteen  thousand  dollars  to  bring  him  out 
from  England." 

"Eighteen  thousand  dollars?"  I  cried. 

"  Yes.  You  see,  the  cattle  here  are  not 
fat  and  sleek  like  those  of  your  country 
and  mine.  So  we  must  do  everything  we 
can  to  improve  them.  They  're  inclined 
to  be  skinny.  That's  because  they  are 
alfalfa-fed.  Have  n't  you  noticed  how 
much  more  meat  you  can  eat  in  this  coun 
try  than  you  can  at  home?  That's  be 
cause  the  beef  is  n't  hearty  like  the  '  roast 
beef  of  Old  England  '  and  the  States." 

His  question  made  me  think  of  some 
thing  which  happened  when  I  first  went  to 


Unofficial 


Asuncion.  It  was  with  the  utmost  con 
sternation  that  I  one  day  heard  La  Senora 
Consul  calmly  ordering  sixteen  pounds  of 
meat  for  our  little  family.  I  thought  she 
was  crazy  until  I  learned  that,  because  of 
the  fact  which  Mr.  Harding  had  just  men 
tioned,  it  was  quite  possible  to  consume 
it.  But,  eighteen  thousand  dollars  for  one 
bull  !  What,  then,  had  the  rest  of  the  cat 
tle  in  the  corral  cost? 

"  How  large  are  the  herds?  "  asked  the 
Consul. 

"  Oh,  we  have  a  hundred  thousand 
Durhams  and  about  twenty  thousand  of 
other  breeds.  Then  there  are  more  than 
a  hundred  thousand  horses  and  about  a 
hundred  and  twenty-five  thousand  sheep." 

What  would  be  the  answer  in  dollars, 
Miladi? 

Apropos  of  dollars,  I  have  already  said 
that  they  think  in  large  figures  in  South 
America.  The  peso  of  Argentina  has  now 
a  fixed  value,  thanks  to  the  sturdy  deter 
mination  of  Sefior  Saenz  Pefia,  President 
[  200  ] 


^Unofficial 


of  the  Republic,  but  for  a.  long  time  it 
fluctuated  in  value  so  that  one  could  never 
be  sure  what  his  money  was  worth.  It 
would  have  one  value  to-day  and  another 
to-morrow.  Mr.  Holt  declares  that  he 
once  gave  a  man  five  dollars  for  some 
thing  and  got  back  four  hundred  and 
ninety-nine  dollars  in  change  ! 

We  rode  a  little  farther  and  came  to 
an  enclosure  into  which  a  herd  had  been 
driven.  "  Ah,"  said  Mr.  Harding,  "  now 
you  will  see  something  really  interesting. 
They  are  going  to  give  these  cattle  an 
antiseptic  bath!  " 

We  all  laughed  at  the  idea,  but  I  can 
assure  you  that  it  was  no  laughing  matter 
to  the  cattle.  A  long  sluice  had  been  built 
with  an  inclined  board  walk  at  either  end. 
The  water  in  the  sluice  was  really  antisep 
tic  and  the  bath  is  for  the  purpose  of 
keeping  the  cattle  free  from  germs.  One 
at  a  time  the  gouchos  "  shoo  "  the  unsus 
pecting  animals  onto  the  board  walk  the 
lower  edge  of  which  is  under  water. 
[201  ] 


Unofficial  g>ecretarp 


Without  the  least  suspicion  he  steps  off 
into  his  bath,  and  you  can  just  imagine  the 
resulting  splash.  In  a  moment  he  comes 
up,  panting  and  puffing,  blowing  worse 
than  a  porpoise  and  madder  than  a  hor 
net.  Then  the  gaucho  deftly  inserts  an 
arrangement  resembling  a  pitchfork  be 
hind  his  head  and  ducks  him  again.  By 
this  time  he  has  reached  the  other  end  of 
the  sluice  and  feels  the  inclined  board 
under  his  feet.  He  walks  indignantly  up 
it,  shaking  his  wet  coat  and  looking  re 
proachfully  at  the  gaucho,  as  though  to 
convey  the  impression  that  he  has  been 
the  victim  of  misplaced  confidence. 

On  the  way  back  to  the  hacienda  we 
saw  some  of  the  men  "  busting  a  broncho." 
I  have  seen  some  pretty  fine  riding  in  my 
life,  Miladi,  but  this  beat  any  exhibition 
of  the  kind  I  had  ever  witnessed.  No  one 
could  believe  that  an  animal  of  any  de 
scription  could  twist  himself  into  as  many 
different  shapes  and  attitudes  as  that  one 
did.  But  the  gaucho  seemed  to  sit  in  the 
[  202  ] 


Unofficial 


saddle  as  lightly  as  a  feather  and,  woman 
like,  I  shrieked, 

"Oh,  he'll  be  killed!" 

"Killed?"  laughed  Mr.  Harding. 
"Who?  Pedro?  Not  on  your  life.  The 
'  bronc  '  does  n't  live  that  could  hurt  him. 
He  can  ride  anything  that  has  a  back  to 
sit  on.  There  's  only  one  thing  the 
'  beast  '  can  do  to  get  him  off.  If  he 
lies  down  and  rolls  over  he  may  do  it, 
but  even  then  Pedro  would  dismount.  He 
would  n't  be  thrown.  Fine  fellow  — 
Pedro.  Lots  of  'em  are." 

"Who  is  he?"  I  asked. 

"  Well,—  " 

Miladi,  the  moment  I  asked  the  ques 
tion  there  came  the  same  shadow  on  his 
face,  the  same  gravity  into  his  voice,  which 
always  come  into  those  of  Dr.  Thorne 
whenever  you  ask  him  about  things  in  this 
country.  I  knew  Mr.  Harding  felt  like 
saying  something  more  and  I  hoped  he 
would,  so  I  kept  quiet.  Presently  he  went 
on: 

[203] 


Unofficial 


"  He  is  only  a  gaucho,  Miss  Leigh,  — 
a  half-breed,  you  know.  Nearly  all  of 
them  are.  It  is  too  bad.  Of  course  we 
have  some  bad  ones,  but  they  are  all 
magnificent  fellows  physically  and  most 
of  them  are  pretty  decent.  They  are  the 
sons  of  Spanish  fathers  and  Indian 
mothers  —  therefore  they  have  the  con 
tempt  of  both  the  Spanish  and  the  Indians. 
It  's  a  shame.  In  managing  the  estancla, 
of  course  we  have  to  treat  them  all  alike, 
but  —  it  's  hard  not  to  be  decent  to  a 
fellow  like  Pedro." 

So  you  see  how  it  is,  Miladi.  Whether 
in  the  crowded  city  or  out  on  the  great 
pampa  under  God's  blue  skies,  wherever 
you  turn,  you  find  that  the  curse  has  left 
its  mark  upon  the  people.  There  is  an 
utter  lack  of  moral  conscience  in  South 
America.  If  only  they  could  be  brought 
to  the  realization  of  how  appalling  it  all 
is  —  what  a  light  it  places  them  in  in  the 
eyes  of  those  nations  alongside  of  which 
they  really  wish  to  stand!  But  they  take 
[204] 


Unofficial  &ecretarp 


it  all  as  a  matter  of  course  and  evidently 
think  it  is  the  same  everywhere. 

We  had  been  watching  Pedro  for  half 
an  hour  while  we  talked  and  could  not 
help  noticing  that  the  "  bronc  "  showed 
signs  of  surrender.  We  had  all  kept  at  a 
safe  distance,  but  a  little  later  as  we  rode 
toward  the  house,  the  victorious  Pedro 
came  galloping  by.  He  flashed  a  fine 
smile  at  Mr.  Harding  and  took  off  his 
hat  to  us  with  all  the  grace  of  a  caballero, 
and  I,  too,  thought,  "  What  a  shame!  " 

The  visit  to  the  estancia  was  a  rare  ex 
perience  for  us  all.  Mr.  Harding  took 
us  to  the  railroad  in  time  for  the  night 
train  back  here.  He  told  us  of  the  enor 
mous  wheat  fields  at  the  other  end  of  the 
ranch,  and  that  Argentina  shipped  more 
wheat  to  Europe  last  year  than  did  the 
United  States  —  this  in  addition  to  the 
three  million  sheep  and  the  two  mil 
lion  quarters  of  beef  which  went  also.  Af 
ter  a  look  at  this  ranch  of  the  English 
Land  Syndicate  (only  one  of  many  in 
[205] 


?Hnofftctal  ifcecretarp 


Argentina)  I  can  well  believe  it  and  then 
some. 

We  got  back  to  Buenos  Aires  yester 
day  morning.  There  is  always  something 
strange  about  arriving  here.  I  feel  every 
time  that  I  am  in  a  strange,  new  city  where 
I  have  never  been  before.  The  feminine 
contingent  went  shopping  and  while  we 
were  gone  the  Consul  called  up  Dr. 
Thorne.  When  we  returned  Mr.  Holt 
was  pacing  up  and  down  the  veranda,  and 
this  is  what  I  got: 

"Isn't  it  just  fine,  Virginia?  Some 
body  's  left  Thorne  the  money  to  build 
his  hospital.  He  's  coming  presently  to 
take  us  out  to  where  they  're  breaking 
ground  for  it." 

Great  Scott!  I  began  to  think  things 
were  getting  warm. 

We  had  luncheon,  and  then  Dr.  Thorne 
appeared.  Miladi,  you  should  have  seeri 
the  change  in  him.  He  looked  like  a  dif 
ferent  creature  and  talked  about  his  plans 
with  almost  boyish  enthusiasm.  I  felt  like 
[206] 


{Unofficial  ^>ecretarj> 


a  thief  in  the  night.  If  he  ever  finds  me 
out!  Miladi,  if  he  ever  does!  Fortu 
nately  the  Consul  was  so  interested  that 
he  did  most  of  the  talking,  so  I  managed 
to  conceal  my  perturbation  of  spirit.  But 
I  am  already  receiving  the  interest  on  my 
seventy-five  thousand,  Miladi.  I  got  the 
first  instalment  when  I  saw  his  face. 

As  we  came  back  to  the  hotel  the  Con 
sul  began  urging  Dr.  Thorne  to  go  with 
us.  "  The  hospital  will  keep,"  he  said. 

He  shook  his  head.  "  Not  this  time," 
he  answered,  and  then  in  a  tone  audible 
only  to  me,  he  said, 

"  The  hospital  might  keep  but  —  Aunt 
Val  might  not." 

"  Is  she  not  well?  "  I  asked. 

"  Oh,  yes,  but  —  seventy-six,  you  know. 
I  do  not  like  to  leave  her  for  any  length 
of  time." 

He  went  with  us  down  to  the  boat.    He 
held  my  hand  a  good  deal  longer  than 
was  absolutely  necessary,  Miladi,  but  all 
he  said  was,  "  Hasta  la  vista." 
[207] 


Unofficial  £>ecretarp 


COLON,  ISTHMUS  OF  PANAMA. 

\T7ELL,  Miladi,  here  we  are  at  the 
great  ditch.  Let  me  assure  you 
that  you  are  no  more  surprised  to  have  a 
letter  from  me  from  Panama  than  I  am  to 
be  writing  one  from  there. 

We  have  had  so  interesting  a  trip  thus 
far  that  it  is  hard  to  put  it  into  words.  An 
old  friend  of  the  Consul  owns  a  large 
coffee  plantation  in  Brazil  not  far  from 
Rio.  Of  course  that  was  one  of  the  things 
we  wanted  to  see.  So  we  took  a  little  coast 
steamer  from  Buenos  Aires  and  went  over 
to  Montevideo  where,  because  the  harbor 
is  as  yet  unfinished,  one  has  to  land  by 
means  of  the  small  launches  which  lie  in 
the  bay  for  the  purpose  of  bringing  pas 
sengers  ashore.  There  is  a  fee  of  one 
dollar  per  passenger,  and  here  we  met  a 
surprise,  for  we  found  the  dollar  in  Uru 
guay  to  be  the  equivalent  of  the  dollar  of 
the  United  States.  The  five-dollar  gold 
piece  of  the  United  States,  however,  is 
[208] 


Unofficial 


accepted  for  only  four  dollars  and  eighty- 
three  cents,  and  the  English  sovereign  for 
four  dollars  and  seventy  cents.  We  had 
to  go  through  the  Customs-house,  of 
course,  but  the  examinations  were  made, 
carefully,  it  is  true,  but  immediately,  and 
I  wish  that  the  Customs-house  officers  of 
New  York  would  take  lessons  in  polite 
ness  from  the  Uruguayans.  We  found  a 
good  hotel,  clean  and  comfortable,  where 
the  men  do  all  the  chamber-work  and 
where  it  is  a  positive  joy  to  give  one  of 
them  a  tip.  They  accept  the  same  with 
many  thanks  and  never  fail  to  make  use 
of  their  ancient  expression,  "  Service  is 
honorable." 

There  is  little  for  the  tourist  to  see  in 
Montevideo,  but  culture  is  in  the  very  air 
in  that  little  city.  It  has  a  polish  which  is 
truly  continental.  The  women  are  attract 
ively  gowned.  The  men  have  beautiful 
manners,  and  after  you  have  left  them,  the 
gentleness  and  cordiality  of  these  people 
remain  with  you,  in  soft  colors,  like  the 
[209] 


{Hnoffutal  £>ecretarp 


memory  of  a  pastel  or  a  bit  of  old 
tapestry. 

The  next  day  we  went  on  up  the  coast 
to  Santos.  One  would  need  to  possess 
Spartan  courage  to  linger  in  Santos  longer 
than  is  necessary,  but  we  stayed  long 
enough  to  realize,  only  in  a  small  degree, 
it  is  true,  the  immensity  of  the  coffee  in 
dustry.  All  day  we  watched  them  wash 
ing,  drying,  and  packing  the  coffee  in  such 
huge  quantities  that  words  fail  in  attempt 
ing  to  describe  it  —  then  on  to  that  beau 
tiful  Bay  of  Rio,  the  memory  of  my  first 
glimpse  of  which  a  little  over  a  year  ago 
will  leave  me  never  while  I  live. 

On  Mr.  Hensley's  plantation  we  found 
the  overseer  to  be  as  refreshingly  and 
enthusiastically  American  as  one  could  de 
sire.  His  name  is  Ambrough.  The  Stars 
and  Stripes  fluttered  from  his  automobile 
to  begin  with,  and  if  that  does  n't  prove 
his  nationality,  I  don't  mind  telling  you 
that  on  the  way  out  to  the  ranch  he  in 
dulged  in  a  few  desultory  remarks  anent 


1L\)t  {Unofficial 


the  only  type  of  woman  which  South 
America  affords,  and  at  last  confided  to 
me,  sotto  voce,  that  I  was  the  first  real 
girl  he  had  seen  for  five  years! 

Miladi,  he  took  me  straight  back  to  the 
days  when  we  used  to  go  to  the  "  Proms  " 
at  Yale  and  Harvard  and  West  Point. 
What  a  martyr  my  dear  mother  made  of 
herself  by  playing  chaperon  in  order  that 
we  might  attend  them!  And  how  vio 
lently  the  fellows  used  to  make  love  to 
us  —  for  one  night  only  !  Then  the  next 
year,  if  we  had  the  luck  to  be  asked  again, 
we  went  back  to  do  it  all  over.  There 
would  be  the  same  music,  the  same  flow 
ers,  the  same  light  and  laughter  and  danc 
ing,  but  —  another  fellow  ! 

Dear,  delightful  American  college  man, 
respectfully  I  salute  you  !  We  run  across 
you  in  every  land  between  Pole  and  Pole, 
and  on  all  of  the  Seven  Seas,  and  there 
is  none  other  like  you  in  all  the  world! 
And  dear,  delightful  college  days,  when 
Youth  takes  its  last  fling  before  the 

[211] 


Unofficial 


opening  up  of  life's  great  responsibilities! 
Those  are  the  days  when  it  is  quite  in  the 
natural  order  of  things  that  you  should 
make  love  to  us  —  quite  in  the  natural 
order  of  things  that  we  should  enjoy  it. 
So  you  have  our  august  permission  to 
keep  on,  if  you  wish,  until  the  end  of 
time,  telling  us  that  we  are  the  only  girl 
you  ever  loved  !  You  don't  mean  a  word 
of  it,  but  then  —  we  know  you  don't,  so 
it  's  all  right.  No  girl  of  that  age  can 
appreciate  a  real  man  anyway! 

It  took  about  two  hours  to  drive  out 
to  the  plantation.  What  a  sight  it  was! 
The  coffee  trees,  thousands  and  thousands 
of  them,  planted  in  straight  rows  and  all 
the  same  height  —  about  eight  feet.  I 
asked  Mr.  Ambrough  if  they  grew  no 
higher. 

"  Yes,  they  would  grow  to  twenty  feet 
if  left  alone,"  he  said,  "  but  we  cut  them. 
They  grow  better  and  it  simplifies  the 
picking.  The  berries  can  be  reached  from 
the  ground." 

[212] 


^Unofficial 


We  counted  ourselves  fortunate  to  have 
visited  the  ranch  when  we  did.  The  coffee 
berries  are  not  all  ripe  at  once,  and  this 
time  we  had  the  luck  to  see  the  plantation 
in  three  different  stages  of  development. 
One  large  orchard  was  in  bloom.  Miladi, 
Japan,  as  we  saw  it  in  cherry-blossom 
time,  was  no  more  beautiful.  Another 
orchard  was  loaded  with  green  berries. 
In  a  third  the  berries  were  blood  red  — 
therefore  ripe  and  ready  to  be  picked. 
The  orchards  had  been  planted  at  different 
times  and  apropos  of  the  planting  —  there 
by  hangs  a  tale. 

Every  trivial  circumstance  is  taken  into 
consideration  when  it  comes  time  for  the 
planting.  This  has  to  be  done  during  the 
rainy  season  because  unless  the  little  trees 
are  kept  soaking  wet  they  will  not  live, 
or  if  they  do,  they  will  not  flourish.  In 
Indiana,  you  know,  the  farmer  will  not 
plant  his  potatoes  unless  it  is  the  dark  of 
the  moon.  Well,  here  they  have  to  keep 
a  sharp  watch  for  el  verano  de  San  Juan  — 
[213] 


fclnoff  icial  ;%>ecretarp 


the  summer  of  St.  John.  This  is  a  pe 
riod  of  ten  days  or  a  fortnight  when  the 
rain  sometimes  suddenly  ceases,  or  if  it 
rains  at  all  the  downfall  is  not  sufficient  to 
save  the  trees. 

"  But,"  laughed  Mr.  Ambrough,  "  the 
Indiana  farmer  certainly  has  put  one  over 
on  us.  He  has  ways  of  finding  out  when 
it  will  be  the  dark  of  the  moon.  With 
us,  not  even  the  most  experienced  planter 
knows  when  el  verano  will  appear.  Only 
two  years  ago  we  had  the  experience  our 
selves.  It  had  poured  down  for  days. 
We  set  out  a  thousand  trees.  El  verano 
came  next  morning.  Not  another  drop  of 
rain  for  two  weeks.  We  dug  up  the  trees 
and  replanted." 

In  the  orchard  where  the  berries  were 
ripe  the  peons  were  busy  picking.  One 
after  another  they  came  along  with  bushel 
baskets  filled  with  the  red  berries  poised 
on  their  heads.  One  bushel  of  coffee  ber 
ries  will  produce  ten  pounds  of  cleaned 
coffee.  But  the  peons  of  Brazil  can  not 
[214] 


ZHnofftctal  &ecretarp 


be  compared  with  the  gauchos  of 
Argentina.  They  are  men  you  do  not 
like  to  look  at,  but  what  can  you  expect? 
Spanish  -j-  Indian  -j-  Negro  =  what? 
Can  any  one  imagine  a  worse  combination? 

We  had  to  get  back  to  Rio  that  night 
in  order  that  we  might,  the  next  morning, 
catch  the  Argentina,  north-bound  for 
the  Barbadoes.  We  parted  regretfully 
from  our  fine  young  countryman  and  when 
we  were  leaving  he  said  (a  little  wist 
fully,  I  thought)  : 

"  Are  you  going  back  to  the  States?  " 

I  assured  him  that  I  was  not,  whereupon 
he  remarked  that  if  I  stayed  on  his  side 
of  the  Equator  he  stood  a  chance  of  see 
ing  me  again! 

We  had  a  long  restful  sail  up  the  At 
lantic  to  the  Barbadoes,  but  when  we 
changed  there  to  a  little  boat  to  cross  the 
Caribbean  Sea,  the  lovely  restfulness  dis 
appeared.  I  am  beginning  to  think,  Mi- 
ladi,  that  there  must  be  somewhere  in  my 

[215] 


Unofficial  g>ecretat2> 


ancestry  a  stray  family  of  Vikings.  A 
rough  sea  has  positively  no  effect  upon  me 
save  to  send  my  spirits  skyward.  This 
boat  tossed  every  way  at  once.  La  Senora 
Consul  surrendered  and  stuck  to  the  berth. 
Mrs.  B.  C.  looked  as  though  butter 
would  n't  melt  in  her  mouth.  Even  Mr. 
Holt  acknowledged  that  he  had  seen  bet 
ter  days.  After  it  got  pretty  rough  I 
found  him  stretched  out  mournfully  in  a 
steamer  chair  and  asked  him  (wickedly) 
if  he  did  n't  feel  well.  He  looked  at  me 
a  moment  and  then  said  grimly, 

"  Go  away,  Virginia.  Clear  away 
where  I  can't  even  see  you.  You  are  so 
insultingly  healthy  !  " 

But  the  bad  weather  lasted  only  a  day. 
The  next  morning  the  sea  was  blue  and 
beautiful  and  the  flying  fish  played  hide 
and  seek  under  the  yellow  sea-weed.  A 
few  days  later  we  saw  the  mountainous 
coast  of  Venezuela  looming  up  out  of  the 
mist,  nine  thousand  feet  above  the  sea.  We 
got  ourselves  together  and  at  La  Guayra 


{Unofficial  gbecretarp 


a  launch  flying  a  strange  flag  came  out  to 
meet  us. 

I  have  had  a  good  many  experiences  in 
my  somewhat  eventful  career,  Miladi,  but 
none  to  approach  the  one  at  La  Guayra. 
Only  El  Serior  Consul's  imperturbable 
good  nature  and  his  undeniable  credentials 
kept  us  from  being  left  on  board  in  dis 
grace  or  taken  ashore  and  put  in  jail.  In 
the  United  States  (I  have  since  learned) 
any  one  who  wishes  to  come  to  Venezuela 
has  to  get  a  permit  from  the  Venezuelan 
Consul  before  the  steamship  company  will 
sell  him  a  ticket.  When  we  had  been  in 
spected  to  a  finish  we  were  rowed  ashore 
where  we  were  parboiled  in  the  steaming 
heat  while  the  officers  went  to  telephone 
about  us  up  to  Caracas,  the  capital.  At 
last,  after  all  of  us  had  been  compelled 
to  sign  our  names  to  a  piece  of  paper 
(Heaven  only  knows  what  was  on  it) 
and  when  all  of  us  had  separated  our 
selves  from  what  little  money  we  had  left 
about  our  persons  in  order  to  appease  the 
[217] 


Unofficial 


sharks  who  masqueraded  in  the  uniform 
of  porters,  we  entered  the  train  and 
climbed  up,  up,  far  up  the  mountain-side, 
till  the  hot,  steamy  air  became  cool  and 
balmy,  and  you  could  look  down  on  the 
blue  Caribbean,  stretching  away  for  miles 
and  miles,  toward  you,  Miladi,  toward 
you! 

We  stopped  once  on  the  climb  and  an 
individual  dashed  madly  through  the  car 
and  made  us  sign  another  piece  of  paper. 
Recklessly  we  attached  our  signatures  to 
any  old  thing  they  offered  us.  We 
could  n't  help  ourselves.  Then  suddenly 
when  we  had  reached  a  height  of  three 
thousand  feet,  the  train  rolled  into  as 
pretty  a  little  city  as  one  would  wish  to 
see,  spread  out  on  the  floor  of  a  beautiful 
valley,  with  the  great,  high  mountains  ris 
ing  all  around  it  and  shutting  it  in.  This 
was  Caracas,  a  city  of  ten  thousand  people, 
delightful  of  climate  and  possessed  of 
splendid  asphalt  pavements,  street  cars, 
and  electric  lights. 

[218] 


Unofficial  &ecretarp 


Caracas  lies  directly  in  the  centre  of 
Venezuela.  In  the  centre  of  Caracas  is  a 
plaza.  In  the  centre  of  the  plaza  is  a 
statue,  and  the  statue  quite  fascinated 
me.  I  thought  of  the  man  in  whose  honor 
it  was  placed  there,  who  freed  all  this 
part  of  the  country  from  Spain,  who  was 
imprisoned  by  his  own  people  and  who 
died  broken-hearted  and  in  exile  with  the 
words  "  I  have  ploughed  in  the  sea  "  on 
his  lips  —  Simon  Bolivar.  Up  in  the 
States  they  teach  us  to  pronounce  that 
name  to  rhyme  with  Oliver,  Miladi. 
Down  here  they  call  him  See-mon.  Eo-leev- 
ar,  and  it  seems  to  suit  him  better. 

We  had  dinner  at  the  Legation  in  Cara 
cas  and  while  en  route  from  the  hotel  we 
had  a  funny  experience.  We  were  about 
to  enter  the  carriage,  and  as  usual  I  was 
doing  all  the  chattering,  but  for  some 
reason  had  been  speaking  Spanish.  Pres 
ently  a  nice-looking  man  who  had  been 
sitting  near  us  came  over  and  said  to  the 
Consul  (in  Portuguese,  I  will  translate)  : 
[219] 


{[Unofficial  &ecretarp 


"  Pardon  me,  —  are  you  not  North 
American?  " 

"Si,  Senor,"  answered  Mr.  Holt. 

"  Ah,  then,  perhaps  you  speak  Eng 
lish!  "  he  exclaimed,  whereupon  he  broke 
forth  in  better  English  than  any  of  us  could 
have  spoken  if  we  had  been  at  our  best. 
We  all  had  a  good  laugh.  I  do  not  know 
what  he  is  doing  in  Caracas.  He  is  from 
Bogota,  in  Colombia,  that  little,  practically 
inaccessible  town  in  the  interior,  ten  thou 
sand  feet  in  the  air.  Colombia  has  no 
sea-coast,  yet  this  man  calls  Bogota  the 
Boston  of  South  America  and  says  that  it 
is  the  only  place  on  the  continent  where 
you  will  hear  the  musical  language  of  Cer 
vantes  and  Calderon  spoken  in  its  purity. 
He  had  been  several  times  to  the  United 
States  and  said  modestly, 

"  I  did  my  college  work  at  Princeton. 
Once  I  should  have  said  I  was  educated 
there.  I  know  now  that  a  man's  education 
does  n't  begin  until  the  doors  of  his  Alma 
Mater  are  locked  behind  him." 
[  220  ] 


^Inofficial 


His  remark  made  me  think  of  a  story 
I  heard  once  about  a  young  enthusiast  who 
was  walking  through  the  grounds  at  Har 
vard  with  James  Russell  Lowell.  Sud 
denly  the  young  man  exclaimed, 

"  What  an  atmosphere  of  learning 
hovers  about  this  place  !  " 

"Why,"  said  Mr.  Lowell,  "that's 
easily  explained.  Every  freshman  when 
he  comes  brings  something  with  him  and 
the  seniors  take  nothing  away!  " 

I  have  thought  a  good  many  times  of 
the  remark  of  the  young  man  from  Colom 
bia.  The  weak  spots  in  our  modern  edu 
cation  are  already  beginning  to  be  felt  by 
all  who  have  had  the  experience.  Now 
adays,  in  our  rush  after  the  madly  prac 
tical  we  are  losing  sight  of  the  things 
which  educate,  and  every  year  the  schools 
and  colleges  are  turning  out  young  men 
and  women  who  know  but  one  thing. 

Tell  me,  Miladi,  is  a  man  educated  be 
cause  he  can  build  a  bridge?  Is  a  man 
educated  because  he  can  make  a  chemical 
[221] 


Unofficial  £s>ecretarp 


analysis?  Is  a  woman  educated  because 
she  understands  the  binomial  theorem  or 
because  she  has  "  taken  a  course  "  in 
music,  nursing,  sewing,  or  dramatic  read 
ing?  No.  I  turn  again  to  my  friend 
Touchstone.  He  told  the  shepherd  that 
he  was  damned  —  like  an  ill-roasted  egg, 
all  on  one  side!  That  is  what  is  the 
matter  with  our  so-called  education  of 
to-day. 

Of  course  it  is  easy  to  see  what  lies  at 
the  root  of  the  whole  business.  Miladi, 
may  I  pass  to  the  Great  Beyond  before  I 
believe  that  the  sole  aim  in  life  is  to  make 
a  living!  Are  the  people  of  our  country 
mad  —  money-mad?  The  rich,  the  poor, 
and  all  that  lie  between  the  two  extremes 
have  fallen  into  line,  it  seems,  in  the  mad 
rush  after  money.  And  so  they  begin 
away  down  in  the  kindergarten.  There 
the  cry  is,  "  Teach  the  children  to  use  their 
hands."  From  there  it  goes  to  the  grades, 
and  nowadays  when  the  seventh  is  reached, 
it  comes  again,  "  Let  him  take  manual 
[  222  ] 


Unofficial 


training  instead  of  grammar,  history,  or 
geography.  He  must  learn  the  practical. 
He  must  make  a  living."  Then  into  the  high 
school  where  the  mania  increases  — 
'  What  nonsense  for  a  boy  to  waste 
time  studying  his  mother-tongue  and  learn 
ing  the  history  of  his  country  I  Give  him 
the  practical.  He  must  make  money!  " 
Then  the  university,  where  often  he  is 
permitted  to  choose  his  own  studies  but 
always  in  his  brain  the  thought  which  has 
been  pounded  into  him  since  his  cradle  — 
"  I  may  not  study  this  which  I  should  like. 
I  must  not  be  lured  by  that,  which  is  fas 
cinating.  I  must  get  only  the  practical. 
I  must  make  money!"  Then  look  for 
ward  into  the  years,  Miladi.  See  him 
again  when  he  is  fifty.  There  are  lines  in 
his  face  one  would  fain  rub  out,  and  if  he 
says  it  not  aloud,  sadly  he  acknowledges 
to  himself:  "  I  am  not  a  man.  I  am  a 
machine.  I  am  good  for  but  one  thing  — 
to  make  money." 

Sometimes  he  becomes  a  man  of  wealth 
[223] 


Unofficial 


and  then  he  deserves  the  sympathy  and 
pity  of  his  fellow-men.  How  shall  he 
occupy  his  leisure  time?  Has  he  any  re 
sources  within  himself  on  which  he  may 
draw  in  his  old  age?  No.  And,  Miladi, 
it  was  not  his  fault  —  it  was  not  his  fault. 
He  was  educated  —  like  an  ill-roasted 
egg,  all  on  one  side. 

What  a  difference  there  is  between  living 
and  making  a  living,  Miladi.  When  a 
fellow  hangs  on  till  he  gets  through  col 
lege  things  are  not  so  bad.  Even  if  he 
can  not  study  there  the  things  he  would 
like,  the  desire  is  planted  and  in  after  years 
he  may  take  them  up.  But  the  schooling 
of  many  a  man  of  to-morrow  will  end 
with  the  grades.  The  schooling  of  more 
will  end  with  the  high  school.  What  is 
to  become  of  them?  The  United  States 
has  become  a  land  of  colleges  and  uni 
versities  but  where  are  the  schools?  Can 
one  build  a  sky-scraper  without  a  founda 
tion?  Like  a  huge  tidal  wave  this  cry  for 
the  practical  has  inundated  the  land  and 
[224] 


^Unofficial 


unless  it  subsides  naturally  and  of  its  own 
accord,  then  take  it  from  me,  Miladi,  fu 
ture  generations  will  speak  of  us  as  now 
they  tell  of  "  the  glory  that  was  Greece 
and  the  grandeur  that  was  Rome." 

It  was  almost  as  hard  to  get  out  of 
Caracas  as  it  was  to  get  into  it,  but  at  last 
the  deed  was  successfully  accomplished.  I 
don't  wonder  that  things  seethe  in  Vene 
zuela,  Miladi.  One  can't  help  feeling  like 
a  conspirator.  I  had  a  wild  desire  to 
seize  a  little  flag,  rush  madly  out  into  the 
street  and  cry,  "  Five  la  revolution  "  every 
minute  I  was  there.  Fortunately  when  we 
got  back  to  La  Guayra  they  remembered 
us,  so  the  escape  was  less  difficult  than  it 
might  have  been. 

You  just  ought  to  have  seen  Mrs. 
British  Consul  when  we  re-embarked! 
The  boat  we  came  over  here  on  was  as 
English  as  the  little  lady  herself.  The 
minute  we  crossed  the  gang-plank  our  bag 
gage  became  our  luggage,  and  instead  of 
a  sputtering  Spaniard  we  struck  an  English 
[225] 


Unofficial  &ecretarp 


steward  who  said  "  Thank-you-sir-if-you- 
please-sir,"  to  every  man  on  board, 
whether  he  gave  him  a  quarter  or  verbally 
consigned  him  to  the  lower  regions. 

Now  I  know  you  are  puzzling  over  the 
length  of  this  letter,  Miladi,  but  listen  to 
my  confession.  On  account  of  our  having 
come  from  La  Guayra  (where  they  have 
the  fever  in  large  consignments)  we  were 
sent  to  quarantine.  The  king  himself 
could  n't  have  escaped  so  we  accepted  the 
situation  without  comment.  Moreover,  we 
were  more  comfortable  than  we  should 
have  been  at  the  hotel,  for  we  had  a  clean, 
white-painted  cottage  with  a  broad  porch 
just  opposite  the  big  hospital.  Six  days 
must  we  stay  there,  so  you  see  I  had  all 
the  time  there  was. 

We  have  tried  to  see  what  we  could 
of  the  Canal  but  like  all  gigantic  enter 
prises  it  does  not  show  to  the  outsider  the 
immense  amount  of  work  which  has  been 
put  upon  it.  We  rode  through  the  Cule- 
bra  Cut,  where  the  huge  steam  shovels 
[226] 


g>ecretarp 


(made  in  Milwaukee)  had  cut  great 
gashes  in  the  red  clay.  I  have  an  alto 
gether  different  idea  of  the  Canal  enter 
prise,  now,  Miladi.  Doubtless  those  who 
came  to  work  on  it  first  had  a  pretty  bad 
time  of  it,  but  now  everything  is  changed. 
The  swamps  and  jungle  have  been  drained 
and  cleaned.  The  men  who  came  then 
have  all  sent  back  for  their  families. 
There  is  nothing  at  home  that  you  will 
not  find  here  —  good  schools,  good  teach 
ers  for  them,  the  opera,  the  races,  base 
ball  games,  the  ever-present  automobile, 
pretty  houses  to  live  in,  lovely  gardens 
and  —  a  Woman's  Club.  Panama  has  al 
ready  become  home  to  these  people.  Not 
one  of  them  will  ever  go  back.  They 
have  not  the  air  of  being  in  durance  vile, 
only  waiting  for  a  chance  to  escape. 
Instead,  the  atmosphere  fairly  bristles  with 
the  spirit  of  "  I  have  tackled  the  job.  I 
will  see  it  through."  One  can  not  be  on 
the  ground  and  be  other  than  optimistic 
as  to  the  future  of  the  Panama  Canal. 
[227] 


Unofficial  g>ecretarj> 


The  Consul  says  that  to-morrow  we  are 
to  go  on.  On!  Does  n't  that  sound  de 
lightfully  indefinite?  By  on,  however,  I 
presume  he  means  that  we  are  to  travel 
down  the  western  coast  by  way  of  the 
Pacific.  Adios. 

VALPARAISO,  CHILE. 

"C^  OUR  weeks  since  we  left  the  Isthmus, 
Miladi,   but  into   those  four  weeks 
I   think   I   have   crowded   four  years   of 
experience. 

I  beg  to  inform  you  at  the  outset  that 
the  boat  we  took  from  Panama  was  a 
direct  descendant  of  the  historic  craft 
yclept  Noah's  Ark.  In  addition  to  the 
passengers,  we  had  on  board  live  cattle, 
poultry  on  foot,  and  a  gorgeous  array  of 
fresh  vegetables,  all  of  which  we  were  sup 
posed  to  eat  en  route.  Any  self-respecting 
boat  could  make  the  trip  down  to  Valpa 
raiso  in  ten  days  but  this  one  was  utterly 
indifferent  as  to  its  nautical  reputation. 
[228] 


^Unofficial  &ecretarp 


With  our  little  stops  it  took  four 
weeks.  We  saw  the  green  shores  of  Ecua 
dor  only  from  a  distance,  for  we  had  been 
advised  that  Guayaquil,  the  port  through 
which  passes  out  more  than  half  the  choco 
late  used  by  the  whole  world,  was  full  of 
fever.  So  we  passed  it  by  and  made  our 
first  stop  at  Callao,  the  "  down-town,"  as 
it  were,  of  Lima,  the  ancient  capital  of 
Peru.  They  say  that  more  than  a  thou 
sand  vessels  touch  at  the  port  of  Callao 
each  year,  and  I  can  readily  believe  it. 

We  took  the  trolley-car  for  Lima,  nine 
miles  up  the  valley,  and  from  there  had 
one  of  the  most  interesting  journeys  it 
would  be  possible  to  experience  —  a  ride 
on  the  highest  railroad  in  the  world,  a 
road  which  carries  you,  within  the  space 
of  a  few  hours,  to  the  tip-top  of  the  Peru 
vian  Andes.  Let  me  remark  in  passing, 
Miladi,  that  this  railroad  was  built  by  a 
Yankee  —  a  typical  soldier  of  fortune 
named  Henry  Meiggs.  He  got  into  all 
sorts  of  scrapes  in  his  own  country,  made 
[229] 


^inofficial  &ecretarp 


and  lost  several  fortunes,  and  fled  the 
United  States  leaving  a  million  dollars' 
worth  of  debts.  In  time  he  landed  in 
Peru,  built  the  railroad  running  from  Lima 
to  Oroya,  and  one  has  to  see  and  ride 
upon  it  to  appreciate  the  job.  You  and  I 
have  been  on  the  Great  Divide,  Miladi, 
and  you  know  how  we  got  there.  We 
crept  gradually  up  the  long  but  easy  as 
cent  from  the  Mississippi.  Here  it  is  not 
so.  You  are  lifted  to  appalling  heights  in 
so  short  a  time  that  you  can  scarcely  real 
ize  what  has  happened.  The  air  is  thin 
and  clear  and  cold  and  those  who  have 
"  nerves  "  and  "  hearts  "  begin  to  have 
trouble.  Neither  seemed  to  bother  me.  I 
must  have  left  my  nerves  in  Washington. 
As  for  my  heart  —  I  think  it  is  buried  in 
a  garden  in  Buenos  Aires. 

When  we  reached  the  peak  we  were 
fifteen  thousand  six  hundred  feet  above 
Callao.  With  the  exception  of  La  Senora 
Consul  our  little  party  stood  the  trip  first 
rate.  She,  however,  felt  the  altitude 
[230] 


Unofficial  &ecretarp 


exceedingly  and  we  were  all  glad  when  we 
began  the  descent.  I  was  quite  prepared 
to  have  the  little  train  "  take  a  header  " 
at  any  moment  and  land  us  in  a  heap  at 
the  bottom,  but  it  did  n't,  and  when  it  got 
too  dark  to  see  longer  out  of  the  win 
dows,  I  found  myself  musing  on  the  fas 
cinating  Past  which  belongs  to  Peru.  Who 
could  help  it? 

As  we  rode  up  the  mountains  that  morn 
ing  we  could  look  out  and  see  the  old  ter 
raced  fields  of  the  Incas  —  here  and  there 
a  ruined  temple  reminding  one  of  Chaldee; 
here  and  there  a  village  on  whose  walls  are 
the  carved  serpents  which  whisper  of 
Egypt;  here  and  there  a  convent  or  monas 
tery  telling  of  Rome.  The  myths  and 
legends  of  Peru  awake  remembrances  of 
ancient  Greece.  The  tales  of  sacrificial 
rites  and  ceremonies  take  you  back  to  the 
Druids  of  England. 

Ah,  well!  The  key  to  the  history  of 
Peru  lies  in  the  difference  in  character  be 
tween  the  conquerors  and  the  conquered. 
[231] 


Unofficial 


When  the  Spaniards,  gallant,  bigoted,  and 
cruel,  fell  upon  the  Indians,  obedient, 
peaceable,  devout,  holding  their  rulers,  the 
Incas,  in  passionate  love  and  reverence, 
there  could  be  but  one  result.  There  is  a 
place  in  the  mountains  overlooking  Cuzco 
where  every  Indian  who  passes  the  spot 
takes  off  his  hat  and  looks  down  into  the 
valley  as  his  ancestors  have  done  for  ages. 
Once  they  could  have  seen  from  here  their 
wondrous  Temple  of  the  Sun.  Later  its 
sacred  fires  were  extinguished,  their  priests 
scattered  and  killed,  and  their  fathers, 
with  broken  hearts,  looked  down  upon  a 
Spanish  cathedral.  Gone  were  then  the 
days  of  peace  and  plenty  for  the  Indian  of 
Peru. 

And  who  can  ever  forget  the  passing 
of  the  last  Inca?  When  the  conquerors 
were  in  his  beloved  city  and  all  hope  was 
lost,  a  dark,  athletic  figure  appeared  on 
the  cliff.  He  cast  his  war-club  from  him, 
wrapped  his  mantle  about  him,  and  threw 
himself  headlong  from  the  battlement.  He 
[232] 


<Efje  Unofficial  g»ecretarp 

had  struck  his  last  blow  for  the  freedom  of 
his  country.  He  would  not  outlive  her 
honor.  How  long  ago  it  all  was ! 

And  then,  years  afterward,  there  came 
another,  seeking  to  free  this  country  from 
Spain.  He  was  a  native  of  Argentina, 
educated  in  Spain.  After  he  had  accom 
plished  the  independence  of  Argentina  and 
Chile,  he  marched  his  Army  of  the  Andes 
to  Peru,  and  on  his  flag  was  embroidered 
a  great  glowing  Sun  —  ancient  symbol  of 
the  Incas.  This  man  was  San  Martin,  the 
hero  of  Argentina.  When  he  reached 
Peru,  he  found  there  Bolivar  the  Libera 
tor,  fighting  the  war  of  freedom.  He  saw 
that  there  must  be  but  one  leader,  so  he  re 
turned,  leaving  Bolivar  to  complete  the 
task. 

While  I  was  busy  with  my  thoughts,  the 
little  train  rolled  into  Lima,  the  quaint 
old  city  whose  walls  were  begun  by  that 
old  scamp  Pizarro  himself  in  1535. 
Wearily  we  made  our  way  to  the  hotel  and 
to  bed. 

[233] 


{Unofficial  &ecretarp 


Next  morning,  however,  we  went  explo 
ing.  We  found  Lima  a  restful,  beau 
tiful  place  —  beautiful  because  touched  by 
the  spirit  of  days  that  are  no  more.  Since 
the  war  between  Chile  and  Peru  the  people 
of  Lima  have  been  touched  with  a  pro 
found  sadness.  Like  the  Danes  who 
have  never  ceased  to  grieve  for  Schleswig- 
Holstein,  and  the  French  who  still  mourn 
Alsace-Lorraine,  Peru  will  never  recover 
from  the  loss  of  her  nitrate  beds  which 
fell  to  Chile  by  the  fortunes  of  war.  They 
have  proved  to  the  latter  an  easy  road  to 
wealth.  From  them  she  supports  her  army 
and  navy  and  pays  her  public  expenses.  It 
is  like  turning  a  knife  in  a  wound  to  the 
people  of  Peru.  Nor  is  this  all.  During 
the  war  she  lost  her  ships,  many  of  her 
fighting  men  were  killed,  and  her  seaports 
destroyed.  The  enemy  camped  in  Lima's 
beautiful  parks,  turned  the  fine,  old  Li 
brary  into  barracks  and  lit  their  cigars 
with  the  pages  of  the  books. 

Another    hero    of    Peru    is    Bolognesi. 
[234] 


Unofficial  &>ecretarp 


Followed  by  his  army  of  two  thousand 
Peruvians  he  fought  the  Chileans,  twice 
their  number,  al  ultimo  cartucho  —  to  the 
last  cartridge.  There  is  an  avenue  in  Lima 
called  the  Ninth  of  December  and  at  the 
end  of  it  is  a  statue  of  Bolognesi  —  not  a 
triumphant,  victorious  warrior  such  as  you 
see  in  the  other  South  American  cities,  but 
a  defeated,  beaten  soldier,  swaying  as 
though  about  to  fall,  the  right  hand  hold 
ing  an  empty  revolver,  the  left  arm 
wrapped  about  a  tattered  flag.  The  whole 
statue  seems  to  cry  "  Defeat!  Despair!! 
Death  !  !  !  —  al  ultimo  cartucho!!!  "  I 
have  seen  nowhere  else  such  sad-eyed  men 
and  women  as  one  sees  in  Lima,  and  no 
wonder. 

As  we  walked  about  the  city,  we 
stepped  from  the  white  glare  of  the  streets 
into  the  old  cathedral.  What  a  sight  met 
our  eyes  there  !  Robed  in  the  sombre  black 
manto  which  all  Peruvian  women  must 
wear  to  church  we  saw  these  beautiful 
Limena  women  kneeling  on  the  stone  floor. 
[235] 


(Unofficial  ^ccrrtarr 


The  manto  is  not  the  graceful  mantilla  of 
the  Spanish  lady,  but  a  severely-plain  black 
garment  which  is  fastened  about  the  head 
and  covers  the  body  as  well.  Rich  and 
poor,  they  all  look  alike,  but  in  the  after 
noon  we  saw  some  of  them  again,  driving 
in  their  little  victorias  and  wearing  Parisian 
gowns  and  hats  which  were  the  envy  of  all 
beholders.  In  the  old  cathedral  all  was  re 
pose.  Just  as  we  entered  the  organ  began 
to  play  and  the  choir  to  chant  the  appeal 
which  we  hear  so  frequently  in  this  Catho 
lic  country: 

Holy  Mary,  Mother  of  God, 
Pray   for  us  sinners  now 
And  in  the  hour  of  death! 

After  the  service  was  over  we  saw  the 
glass  case  which  encloses  the  bones  of  Pi- 
zarro,  and  the  passage-way  through  which 
the  assassins  stole  into  the  palace  to  kill 
him.  The  sacristan  told  us  the  story  of 
one  of  them  who  stepped  to  one  side  to 
keep  out  of  a  mud-puddle.  The  other 

[236] 


Cfje  (Unofficial  &ecretarp 

made  him  go  back  and  walk  through  it, 
saying,  "  He  who  fears  to  walk  through 
water  may  fear  to  walk  through  blood!  " 
Arrived  at  the  palace  they  killed  the  guard, 
fell  upon  the  old  soldier  and  stabbed  him. 
As  he  felt  himself  dying,  Pizarro  traced 
upon  the  stone  floor  with  his  own  blood, 
a  Cross.  Then  he  kissed  it  and  died.  Ah, 
Miladi,  truly,  History  is  written  on  the 
stones  in  Peru! 

Mrs.  British  Consul  knew  an  English 
missionary  in  Lima,  a  woman  who  has 
given  twenty  years  to  the  work.  She  came 
to  the  hotel  to  see  us  and  I  begged  her  to 
take  me  with  her  on  a  round  of  visits.  La 
Senora  Consul  protested,  Mrs.  B.  C.  ad 
vised  against  it,  and  I  was  in  the  depths  of 
disappointment.  But  El  Senor  Consul 
said, 

"  Come  along,  Virginia.     I  '11  go,  too." 

Miladi,  I  wish  I  had  n't.    No, —  I  don't, 

either.     Mr.  Holt  has  always  teased  Dr. 

Thorne  a  little  about  what  he  calls  "  his 

hobby."   He  will  never  do  it  again.    In  his 

[237] 


(Unofficial  £s>ecrctnrp 


busy  life  he  has  not  had  the  opportunity 
to  see  things  as  they  are  and  it  is  hard  to 
imagine  the  unseen.  Now  he  has  seen.  So 
have  I,  and  surely  neither  of  us  will  ever 
forget  the  poor  children  of  Peru.  They 
sprawl  in  the  roads.  They  lie  on  the  door 
steps.  They  hide  in  dark  corners.  They 
run  in  the  narrow  streets.  Disease,  pov 
erty,  dirt  —  these  are  rampant.  Pathetic 
little  faces,  pale,  unwashed,  large-eyed, 
telling  of  cruelty,  telling  of  neglect,  telling 
of  hunger,  telling  of  sin,  look  up  at  you. 
We  hear  often  of  the  sorrows  of  the  child- 
wives  and  child-widows  of  India,  Miladi, 
but  do  we  ever  hear  of  these  little  mothers 
of  fourteen  and  fifteen  who  have  never 
been  wives?  Worse  than  all  else,  there  are 
child  slaves  in  Peru.  Our  English  mis 
sionary  told  us  that  during  the  great 
drought  of  1904  when  the  crops  all  failed 
and  starvation  stared  them  in  the  face, 
more  than  three  thousand  Indlacltos  (little 
Indians)  were  sold  or  given  away  by  their 
mothers  —  that  they  are  cruelly  treated, 
[238] 


^Unofficial  &ecretarp 


starved,  beaten,  and  given  work  far  beyond 
their  strength  to  do.  "  Motherhood  is  a 
negligible  quantity  here,"  she  said. 
'  There  is  no  blossom  in  the  child-life. 
Children  are  spawned  —  not  born.  And 
it  is  almost  as  sad  among  the  better  classes 
as  among  the  poor.  The  families  are  just 
as  large.  Each  child  has  its  own  nurse. 
He  has  no  toys,  no  amusements.  The  chil 
dren  are  listless,  careless,  spiritless,  ambi- 
tionless,  left  entirely  to  the  care  of  the 
servants  who  often  are  evil  companions  and 
sully  their  thoughts  while  they  are  young." 
And  so  it  goes,  Miladi.  What  wonder 
that  few  of  the  boys  grow  up  with  any 
idea  of  morality?  What  wonder  that 
these  dark-eyed  daughters  wreck  their  lives 
as  their  mothers  did  before  them  in  spite 
of  the  barred  windows  which  so  carefully 
shut  them  in  ? 

I  had  had  already  a  taste  of  all  this  in 

Buenos  Aires,  but  Mr.  Holt  was  horrified 

beyond   expression.     That   evening   after 

dinner  we  were  sitting  on  the  balcony  of 

[239] 


^Unofficial  &ecretarp 


the  hotel.  Miss  Halvorson,  the  mission 
ary,  who  had  had  dinner  with  us,  had  just 
gone  and  a  silence  had  fallen  upon  us.  I 
was  thinking  that  it  was  just  as  well  for 
Dr.  Thome's  peace  of  mind  that  he  landed 
in  Buenos  Aires  instead  of  in  Lima.  Mr. 
Holt  was  evidently  deeply  wrapped  in  his 
own  thoughts  but  suddenly  he  startled  us 
all  by  saying  —  not  irreverently,  but  as  if 
speaking  to  himself, 

44  My  God!" 

La  Senora  Consul  looked  up  in  amaze 
ment.  Mr.  Holt  was  not  given  to  such 
speech.  She  thought  he  must  be  ill  and 
went  quickly  to  his  side.  He  laughed  a 
little  but  it  was  surely  the  grimmest  laugh 
I  ever  heard  a  man  give  vent  to. 

"  Pardon  me,  my  dear,"  he  said, 
"  —  but  if  what  I  have  seen  this  day 
would  n't  make  a  man  call  upon  his  Maker 
I  can't  imagine  anything  that  would." 

I  felt  as  though  I  had  had  about  enough 
of  Peru,  but  we  stopped  again  at  Mollendo 
because  it  was  the  easiest  way  by  which 
[240] 


Unofficial 


we  could  get  into  Bolivia.  The  same  war 
with  Chile  which  had  robbed  Peru  of  her 
nitrate  beds  robbed  Bolivia  of  her  sea- 
coast  and  shut  her  up,  tight  and  fast,  in  the 
interior.  But  there  were  things  to  see  in 
Bolivia  and  we  saw  them. 

We  took  another  climb,  similar  to  that 
we  had  taken  from  Lima,  on  another  rail 
road  built  by  the  Yankee,  Meiggs,  up  to 
the  old  city  of  Arequipa.  Nineteen  thou 
sand  feet  above  it,  Mount  Misti,  the  dead 
volcano,  looks  down  upon  the  town.  Are 
quipa  is  a  centre  of  learning  and  a  strong 
hold  of  the  church.  It  has  thirty  thousand 
people  and  it  is  said  that  one  in  fifty  is  in 
the  service  of  the  church.  To  us  the  most 
interesting  thing  in  the  place,  though,  was 
the  Observatory  maintained  there  by  Har 
vard  University.  A  team  of  horses  could 
not  have  kept  Mr.  Holt  from  visiting  it, 
so  we  drove  out  to  the  hills  on  which  it 
stands  and  were  well  repaid. 

Two  Harvard  men  are  in  charge  and  are 
keeping  watch  over  the  southern  skies  just 
[241] 


Ctjc  (Unofficial 


as  those  at  Cambridge  do  over  the  north 
ern  heavens.  I  was  surprised  when  I  saw 
the  telescope,  for  it  is  more  like  a  great 
camera.  They  expose  a  plate  so  that  the 
stars  can  shine  upon  it.  Thus  they  can  lo 
cate  them  with  a  precision  which  can  not  be 
questioned.  By  placing  to-night's  plate 
over  that  of  last  night,  the  trained  eye  can 
easily  detect  a  new  star  should  one  appear. 
When  the  night  is  clear,  the  telescope  is 
arranged  and  the  plate  set.  Then,  like  the 
watch  at  sea,  each  man  goes  on  duty  in 
turn,  to  watch  the  plate  as  it  revolves  with 
the  heavens. 

From  Arequipa  we  took  a  little  boat 
which  was  a  miniature  ocean  liner  and  rode 
all  night  across  Lake  Titicaca,  one  of  the 
most  wonderful  productions  of  Nature  in 
the  world.  It  is  a  hundred  and  thirty-five 
miles  long,  seventy  miles  wide,  a  thousand 
feet  deep,  and  it  lies  away  up  in  the  moun 
tains  twelve  thousand  five  hundred  feet 
above  the  sea.  On  one  of  the  islands  lying 
in  this  lake  the  race  of  Incas  is  supposed 
[242] 


Unofficial  &ecretarp 


to  have  had  its  birth,  and  the  ruins  of  the 
Temple  of  the  Sun  are  still  there.  Once 
across  the  lake,  we  took  the  train  again 
to  La  Paz,  the  city  of  Our  Lady  of  Peace 
and  the  capital  of  Bolivia.  In  La  Paz  I 
saw  a  sight  which  delighted  my  artistic 
eye.  The  ponchos  worn  by  the  cholos 
(Indian  workmen)  are  made  of  homespun, 
but  they  are  in  color  the  most  satisfying 
things  imaginable  —  soft  greens  and 
browns,  dull  red  and  old  rose.  Every  time 
I  saw  one  of  these  men  I  thought  of  an 
old,  soft,  rich,  Oriental  rug. 

Chile  may  have  taken  from  this  little 
country  her  water-edge  but  there  is  one 
thing  she  could  n't  take  —  her  seemingly 
inexhaustible  mines  of  tin.  When  the  rail 
road,  now  building,  connects  her  with 
Buenos  Aires,  Bolivia  can  snap  her  fingers 
at  Chile  and  tell  her  to  look  out  for 
herself. 

It  was  a  long  sail  down  the  coast  from 
Mollendo,  but  early  yesterday  morning  we 
sighted  Valparaiso.  Down  here  they  call 
[  243  ] 


'<£fjc  Unofficial 


this  place  the  Other  San  Francisco,  but 
that  is  where  they  make  a  huge  mistake, 
Miladi.  I  am  willing  to  admit  that  the 
town  does  lie  a  little  like  our  California 
city,  but  the  harbor  is  only  suggestive  of 
and  in  no  way  equal  to  our  beautiful 
Golden  Gate. 

This  is  a  funny  old  place,  Miladi.  The 
streets  are  narrow  and  crooked  and  no 
body  ever  saw  such  vehicles  as  those  which 
here  masquerade  as  conveyances.  If  ever 
you  visit  Valparaiso,  Miladi,  take  my  ad 
vice.  Walk  I  One  thing  they  have, 
however,  which  I  must  confess  is  strictly 
unique  —  at  least  as  far  as  I  know  —  the 
"  Lady  Conductors  "  on  the  street  cars.  I 
have  heard  it  whispered  that  the  city  tried 
the  men  and  found  them  so  dishonest  that 
it  was  moved  to  turn  to  the  women  in  order 
to  keep  the  cars  running.  Well,  they  may 
make  better  conductors,  but  the  clothes 
they  wear  would  move  one  to  tears.  I 
think  that  Noah's  wife  must  have  cut  them 
out.  Each  one  adorns  her  head  with  a 
[244] 


Unofficial 


sailor  hat  about  seven  sizes  too  small,  and 
of  all  the  specimens  of  our  sex  which  it 
has  ever  been  my  misfortune  to  see,  Mi- 
ladi,  they  are  triumphantly  the  ugliest! 

To-morrow  we  start  across  the  Andes. 
After  that,  six  hundred  miles  of  pampa  and 
then  Buenos  Aires  —  city  of  my  dreams. 

THE  TRANS-CONTINENTAL  EXPRESS, 

Buenos  Aires-Pacifico  R.  R. 

the  way  across  the  pampa,  Mi- 
ladi  !  One  might  as  well  be  at  sea. 
The  mountains  lie  far  behind  us,  and  the 
level  plain,  flat  and  bare  as  a  floor, 
stretches  away  and  away  —  nothing  to 
break  the  monotony  save  here  and  there 
a  herd  of  cattle  and  once  in  a  while  a  few 
wild  ostriches.  Some  of  the  trains  we 
have  been  on  have  been  frightful.  Our 
emigrant  trains  in  the  States  are  palace- 
cars  in  comparison.  But  here  we  have  a 
sleeper  and  a  good  dining-car  and  are 
therefore  comfortable. 


Unofficial  &ccretarj> 


Ah,  that  trip  across  the  Andes,  Miladi  ! 
As  long  as  I  live  I  shall  look  back  upon 
it  and  it  will  lend  color  to  my  grayest 
day! 

From  Valparaiso  we  went  up  to  San 
tiago,  the  capital  of  Chile.  It  is  about 
two  thousand  feet  higher  than  the  city  on 
the  coast,  and  at  the  eastern  end  of  every 
street  which  runs  east  and  west  you  see 
the  mountains.  Everything  is  very  much 
alive  in  Santiago.  There  is  an  air  of  get- 
rich-quick  about  the  whole  place.  Banks  — 
English,  German,  Italian,  Spanish  — 
are  on  all  hands,  nitrate  companies,  all 
sorts  of  schemes,  in  fact,  to  make  money. 
We  went  to  see  the  nitrate  vats  at  one 
of  the  oficinas,  and  it  was  hard  to  per 
suade  myself  that  that  dirty,  slimy,  whit 
ish-looking  mud  was  what  Chile,  Peru,  and 
Bolivia  fought  the  great  war  about.  San 
tiago  is  evidently  a  haven  for  exiles  for 
there  are  buildings  there  which  house 
the  English  Club,  the  Deutscher  Verein, 
the  Alliance  Franchise.  There  are  forty 
[246] 


Unofficial 


thousand  people  and  a  beautiful  modern 
railway  station,  just  completed,  but  San 
tiago  seemed  to  me  insignificant,  and  I 
think  it  was  because  of  the  lofty  mountains 
which  look  down  upon  it  and  seem  so  much 
more  majestic  than  a  city.  For  some  rea 
son  the  mountains  there  looked  different 
from  the  way  they  looked  in  Peru. 

But  Santiago  has  an  interest  all  its  own. 
It  was  there  that  Sarmiento,  the  great  ed 
ucator  of  Argentina,  spent  his  voluntary 
exile  and  dreamed  out  the  plan  of  estab 
lishing  in  Argentina  a  system  of  public 
schools.  Sarmiento  was  sent  by  his  coun 
try  to  Washington  and  while  there  news 
was  brought  him  that  he  had  been  elected 
President  of  the  Argentine  Republic.  He 
came  back  and  served  for  six  years,  never 
losing  sight  of  the  object  he  had  in  view 
which  was  to  educate  "  the  people."  The 
good  old  families  still  stick  to  the  con 
vents  and  the  parochial  schools,  but  the 
children  of  "  the  people  "  go  in  large 
numbers  to  the  public  schools. 
[247] 


{Unofficial 


One  day  when  I  was  riding  with  Dr. 
Thorne  in  Buenos  Aires  I  saw  two  famil 
iar  figures  on  the  street.  I  asked  him  to 
stop  that  I  might  speak  to  the  two  Sisters 
who  had  come  down  with  me  on  the  Dom 
Pedro.  I  don't  know  which  was  gladder 
to  see  the  other.  The  Mother  Superior 
begged  that  I  would  go  out  with  her  to  visit 
the  convent  over  which  she  had  charge;  so 
Dr.  Thorne  took  us  out  —  a  long  walk 
it  would  otherwise  have  been  —  and  came 
back  for  me  later.  It  was  a  cool,  pleas 
ant  old  building  and  there  were  many 
young  girls  there,  but  I  learned  that  when 
their  education  is  complete  they  have 
had  about  as  much  as  the  North  Amer 
ican  girl  has  had  at  the  end  of  the  sixth 
grade. 

"  It  is  too  bad,"  sighed  the  Mother  Su 
perior,  "  but  then,  they  think  down  here 
that  it  is  quite  good  enough  for  girls!  " 

Well,  the  youngsters  who  to-day  are  at 
tending  the  public  schools  in  Buenos  Aires 
will  be  the  men  and  women  of  to-morrow, 
[248] 


nofficial  &ecretarp 


and  then  just  watch   them.      Learning  's 
the  thing! 

We  took  the  train  at  Santiago  for  Los 
Andos,  away  up  in  the  mountains.  On  the 
way  we  stopped  at  Llai-Llai,  where  we 
had  to  change  to  the  Trans-Andino  R.  R. 
At  this  place  we  had  another  illustration 
of  the  thrift  of  the  Chileans.  Llai-Llai  — 
they  pronounce  it  "  Yi-Yi  "  just  as 
though  they  were  letting  out  a  college  yell 
of  some  kind  —  is  a  junction,  and  the 
people  had  congregated  in  large  numbers 
with  stuff  to  sell  to  those  who  came  in  on 
the  trains.  We  were  glad  to  see  them, 
though,  for  the  mountain  air  makes  one 
ravenously  hungry  and  we  almost  went 
bankrupt  buying  everything  we  saw  which 
looked  as  though  it  might  be  eaten  — 
then  on  up  the  climb  to  Los  Andos.  Here 
begins  the  four-mile  tunnel  through  the 
Andes,  and  a  tunnel  eleven  thousand  feet 
above  the  sea  level  is  a  thing  one  does  n't 
see  every  day.  But  what  a  mistake  it  was 
to  build  it  there  !  True,  it  would  have 
[249] 


^Unofficial  gs>ecretarp 


cost  a  great  deal  more  money  and  taken 
a  much  longer  time  to  have  tunnelled  the 
mountains  lower  down,  but  it  would  have 
meant  fairly  good  transportation  all  the 
way  across  the  continent  the  year  around, 
which  now  will  never  be.  When  the  ter 
rible  temporal  (winter  blizzard)  comes, 
the  tunnel  is  cut  off  because  the  passages 
are  blocked  with  forty  or  fifty  feet  of  snow 
and  no  one  wants  to  be  caught  up  there 
during  the  South  American  winter.  After 
the  first  of  June  one  fights  shy  of  the 
trans-Andean  trip.  In  summer  nothing 
could  be  more  delightful. 

We  did  not  ride  through  the  tunnel  be 
cause  at  Los  Andos  we  made  the  acquaint 
ance  of  a  young  American  engineer  —  a 
man  whose  business  it  is  to  see  that  the 
road  is  kept  in  good  condition,  the  travel 
ling  made  as  comfortable  as  possible,  and 
the  road  kept  open  just  as  long  as  it  can 
be.  "  Surely,"  he  said  to  El  Senor  Con 
sul,  "  you  are  not  going  back  without  see 
ing  the  'Christo?'" 

[250] 


{Unofficial  £>ecretarp 


We  told  him  that  if  there  was  anything 
to  be  seen  which  we  had  not  seen  we  were 
not  going  back  without  seeing  it!  So  he 
volunteered  to  go  with  us  up  to  the  Pass 
of  Uspallata,  and  had  we  not  taken  his 
advice,  Miladi,  we  should  have  missed  the 
most  impressive  thing  we  saw  in  all  our 
journey.  There  on  the  sublime  heights 
of  the  Andes  we  came  to  the  boundary 
line  between  Chile  and  Argentina,  and  in 
this  pass  over  which  the  heroic  San  Mar 
tin  led  his  army  in  1817,  far  up  among 
the  lonely  crags,  on  the  very  crest  of  the 
Cumbre,  deserted,  isolated,  storm-swept 
in  winter,  majestic  in  its  lonely  dignity,  is 
a  heroic  figure  of  The  Christ,  standing 
beside  a  Cross.  One  hand  is  holding  the 
Cross,  the  other  is  stretched  out  in  bless 
ing  as  though  He  said,  "  My  peace  give 
I  unto  you  !  " 

The  statue  was  placed  there  when  Chile 

and  Argentina   signed  their  peace  agree 

ment.     On  the  pedestal  two  figures  stand, 

back  to  back,  one  pointing  to  Argentina, 

[251] 


^Unofficial  £s>ecrctarp 


one  to  Chile,  and  on  the  base  I  read  the 
sculptured  words: 

Sooner  shall  these  mountains  crumble  into 
dust  than  shall  the  people  of  Argentina 
and  Chile  break  the  peace  which  they  have 
sworn  at  the  feet  of  Christ  the  Redeemer. 

I  turned  and  looked  into  the  faces  of 
our  little  party.  The  deepest  of  silence 
had  fallen  over  us.  It  was  bitter  cold  but 
the  men  had  taken  off  their  hats.  La 
Seriora  Consul  was  weeping  silently. 
Mrs.  British  Consul's  eyes  were  also  wet, 
and  as  for  me,  Miladi,  —  all  the  prayers 
I  ever  forgot  to  say  came  into  my  heart 
at  that  moment.  Nothing  can  ever  oblit 
erate  the  memory  of  that  hour.  The 
drifting  snows  of  the  Andean  winter  may 
blot  out  those  rock-hewn  words,  but  ah, 
the  ideal  for  which  that  statue  stands  is 
there,  and  from  its  lofty  peak  on  the  very 
roof  of  the  world  the  spirit  of  it  will 
breathe  a  blessing  down  on  all  mankind. 

You  have  often  heard  about  gliding 
[252] 


Unofficial 


out  of  one  country  into  another,  but,  Mi- 
ladi,  did  you  ever  hear  of  sliding  out  of 
one  country  into  another?  I  have  been 
guilty  of  some  ludicrous  and  idiotic  things 
in  my  life  but  the  prank  we  all  partic 
ipated  in  the  day  we  climbed  the  pass  was 
the  prize  episode  in  my  career.  When 
we  got  to  the  top  of  the  peak  (where 
Chile  stops)  our  young  American  insisted 
that  we  must  slide  down  the  mountain 
side  into  Argentina.  He  said  everybody 
did  it.  It  was  quite  the  proper  thing.  At 
first  we  thought  he  was  joking,  but  he 
was  n't.  He  showed  us  how  it  was  done, 
and  I  want  to  assure  you,  Miladi,  that 
the  feat  was  accomplished  with  great 
eclat.  There  were  some  minor  difficulties 
to  be  overcome  in  our  case.  Some  of  us 
were  lady  sliders  and  our  skirts  bothered 
us  a  little.  But  we  put  on  our  rain  coats 
and  tied  a  cord  around  our  skirts  just  be 
low  the  knee.  Then  each  of  us  sat  down, 
stuck  his  or  her  foot  under  the  arm  of  the 
one  in  front,  and  thus  firmly  attached, 
[253] 


<Ef)e  Unofficial 


giggling  and  laughing  and  shouting  like  a 
lot  of  school  children,  we  started  madly 
down  the  incline.  Our  American  guide 
went  first,  El  Senor  Consul  brought  up 
the  rear,  and  away  we  went  down  the  fine 
white  sand  for  nearly  three-quarters  of 
an  hour.  When  we  reached  the  end  of 
slide  we  were  in  a  state  of  charming 
deshabille.  Painfully  we  disentangled  our 
selves  each  from  the  other.  I  remember 
that  I  had  a  dreamy  sort  of  feeling  that  my 
pedal  extremities  would  never  work  just 
right  again.  Our  guide,  however,  jumped 
nimbly  up,  laughing.  It  was  a  mistake  to 
make  a  man  out  of  him,  Miladi.  He 
ought  to  have  been  born  a  mountain  goat. 
The  Argentine  end  of  the  tunnel  is  at 
Las  Cuevas.  Here  our  countryman  who 
had  given  us  so  unique  an  experience  said 
good-bye  to  us  and  took  the  train  back 
through  the  tunnel  to  Los  Andos.  We 
took  ours  down  the  steep  incline  to  Men- 
doza,  in  the  foothills,  and  we  looked 
back  regretfully  at  the  Andes,  with  the 
[254] 


fclnoff  icial 


snowy  crest  of  Acoucagua  rising  twenty- 
four  thousand  feet  in  the  air.  The  trip 
down  was  like  the  descent  of  a  fire-escape 
—  down,  down  —  still  down.  The  track 
was  so  steep  and  the  descent  kept  up  so 
long  that  I  was  moved  to  ask  Mr.  Holt  if 
he  had  ever  read  "  Paradise  Lost." 

From  the  way  he  looked  at  me  I  am 
sure  he  thought  that  at  last  my  mind  had 
failed  me,  that  I  had  gone  quite  crazy. 
But  he  replied  that  he  had  a  dim  recol 
lection  of  having  committed  such  a  crime 
once.  He  thought  it  must  have  been  back 
in  the  Dark  Ages.  Why? 

"  Well,"  I  said,  "  the  only  thing  I  Ve 
been  able  to  think  of  to-day  is  the  passage 
which  tells  of  the  fall  from  Heaven  of 
Satan  and  his  hosts: 

From  morn  till  noon  they  fell, 
From  noon  till  dewy  eve  —  a  summer's  day. 

In  time  we  found  ourselves  at  Men- 
doza.  There  we  took  the  Trans-Continen 
tal  Express,  on  board  which  I  am  writing 

[255] 


^Unofficial 


you,  and  since  yesterday  morning  we 
have  been  flying  across  the  prairie  over 
which  the  track  sometimes  runs  for  two 
hundred  miles  without  a  curve. 

Our  vacation  has  been  filled  with  experi 
ences  inexpressibly  interesting.  I  would 
not  have  missed  it  for  anything,  but  oh, 
Miladi,  how  glad  I  am  to  get  back!  Far, 
far  away  already  seem  the  blue  Caribbean, 
the  tropical  heat  of  Venezuela,  the  great 
Canal,  the  Noah's  Ark  of  the  Pacific. 
Two  things,  however,  will  forever  remain. 
I  could  not  forget  if  I  would  the 
wretched  children  of  Peru  and  the  towering 
Christ  of  the  Andes.  Sorrowfully  I  ask 
myself  daily,  "  Has  He  forgotten  them?  " 

I  must  have  been  inspired,  Miladi,  when 
I  gave  Captain  Starr's  money  to  build 
that  hospital.  I  knew  not  the  need  then 
as  I  know  it  now.  No  man  on  earth 
knows  my  exultation  of  spirit  when  I  say 
to  myself,  "  I  helped." 


[256] 


<Ei)e  Unofficial  &ecretarp 

ASUNCION,  PARAGUAY. 

have  been  back  at  the  Consulate 
for  nearly  a  month,  Miladi,  but  I 
have  not  tried  to  write  you.  To  tell  the 
truth,  my  thoughts  have  become  so  weighty 
that  I  know  not  how  to  put  them  down 
on  paper.  Verily,  truth  is  stranger  than 
fiction.  How  many  times  have  I  heard 
those  words  and  how  little  impression  they 
ever  made  upon  me  until  now ! 

A  voluntary  exile,  I  fled  to  this  far 
country  in  search  of  forgetfulness,  Miladi. 
In  truth  I  found  it  the  very  day  I  came, 
but  the  man  who  brought  to  me  forget- 
fullness  of  my  sorrows  had  far  deeper 
ones  of  his  own.  He  had  been  for  long 
a  prisoner  —  in  chains.  Can  it  be  pos 
sible  that  a  chance  word  of  mine,  spoken 
in  an  idle  moment,  is  to  be  the  means  of 
setting  him  free? 

We  had  decided  to  come  up  to  Asun 
cion  by  way  of  the  river  and  for  that  rea 
son  had  to  wait  in  Buenos  Aires  a  day  and 
[257] 


nofficial 


a  half  for  the  boat.  None  of  us  were 
sorry.  The  wearing  apparel  of  El  Seiior 
Consul  appeared  to  be  intact  but  the  fem 
inine  members  of  our  party  felt  and  looked 
a  little  as  though  they  had  just  emerged 
from  the  rag-bag.  Shopping  was  a  neces 
sity  and  besides  —  I  wanted  to  see  the 
new  hospital. 

They  do  not  build  things  down  here 
with  that  degree  of  celerity  which  is  char 
acteristic  of  New  York  or  Chicago,  Mi- 
ladi.  They  do  things  with  provoking 
Latin  slowness.  Still,  there  are  already 
unmistakable  evidences  that  the  building 
Dr.  Thorne  took  us  out  to  see  will  be,  in 
time,  a  hospital.  We  had  a  fine  ride  over 
the  city  and  when  we  got  back  to  the 
hotel  he  said, 

"  I  'm  going  to  take  Miss  Leigh  home 
with  me.  Aunt  Val  will  be  disappointed 
not  to  see  her." 

So  almost  before  I  knew  it  we  were  on 
the  way  to  the  little  house  —  and  the  gar 
den. 

[258] 


Unofficial 


Our  conversation  at  dinner  was  very 
much  on  the  order  of  a  club  sandwich, 
Miladi,  —  alternate  layers  of  estancias, 
hospital,  coffee  orchards,  sea  voyage,  more 
hospital,  mountain  climbing,  Peruvian 
children,  and  some  more  hospital!  Aunt 
Val  looked  on  and  beamed  and  then  when 
dinner  was  over,  while  we  still  lingered 
at  the  table,  like  a  flash  of  lightning  out 
of  a  clear  sky,  it  came. 

"  I  never  come  here,"  I  said,  "  without 
thinking  of  the  times  when,  as  a  child,  I 
used  to  go  to  see  my  grandmother.  She 
lived  with  us  in  winter,  but  when  summer 
came  she  liked  to  get  out  of  the  city.  So 
father  built  her  a  little  house  —  it  looked 
something  like  this  one  —  over  in  Mary 
land.  It  was  such  a  dear  little  place,  and 
the  river  —  the  Choptank  —  " 

A  cry  from  Aunt  Val  nearly  startled  us 
out  of  our  senses.  We  both  sprang  to 
our  feet  and  were  at  her  side  in  a  moment. 

"  What  is  it,  Auntie?  "  he  asked.  "  Are 
you  ill?" 

[259] 


Unofficial  &ecretarp 


She  shook  her  head.  She  was  not  look 
ing  at  him  but  at  me.  She  gazed  straight 
at  me  with  a  look  of  —  what  was  it? 
Fear  ?  Horror  ?  Anxiety  ?  —  in  her  eyes. 

"  Say  it  again,"  she  said,  "  the  name  of 
the  river  —  " 

"The  Choptank?"  I  asked  wonder- 
ingly. 

"  Yes,  —  that  is  it.  All  these  years  — 
I  could  not  remember.  Oh,  Rex,  don't  let 
me  forget  again  —  Choptank.  That  's 
the  place  —  that  's  the  name  of  the  church 
where  —  she  —  was  —  married  —  "  and 
the  poor  little  woman  dropped  into  his 
arms  in  a  perfect  storm  of  tears. 

Dr.  Thome's  face  was  ashen,  but  he 
only  said,  "  You  '11  excuse  us  if  we  leave 
you  alone  for  a  little  while?"  and  then 
he  went  with  Aunt  Val  into  her  own  room. 

I  wandered  out  into  the  garden  and 
sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  basin  of  the 
fountain,  overpowered  by  my  own  feel 
ings.  Out  of  all  the  millions  of  other  wo 
men  whom  she  might  have  selected,  why 
[260] 


{Unofficial  g>ecretarp 


had  Fortune  chosen  me  to  play  football 
with?  What  had  I  done?  What  could 
there  be  in  the  mention  of  my  grand 
mother's  little  bungalow  on  the  Choptank 
River  which  could  so  affect  this  man  and 
this  woman? 

But  after  all,  Miladi,  for  once  I  had 
seen  him  as  he  really  is.  Affection, 
strength,  protecting  tenderness,  all  the 
things  which  woman  loves  in  man,  things 
which  this  man  in  his  daily  life  keeps  so 
carefully  out  of  sight,  came  forth  from 
the  depths  where  they  had  been  in  hiding, 
and  ah  —  heaviest  thought  of  all  —  what 
would  not  the  love  of  such  a  man  as  he 
mean  to  a  woman  such  as  I  ! 

A  step  on  the  path  brought  me  out  of 
my  thoughts  and  back  to  stern  realities. 
I  saw  him  standing  before  me  in  the 
moonlight. 

"  You  are  entitled  to  an  explanation, 
Miss  Leigh,  —  "  he  began. 

"No!"  I  said.  "You  need  not  tell 
me.  I  don't  know  what  I  could  have  said, 
[261] 


Unofficial  &ecretarp 


but  whatever  it  was  it  has  distressed  Aunt 
Val  and  made  you  unhappy.  I  am  sorry." 

"  Don't  say  that,"  he  answered.  "  You 
do  not  understand.  What  you  have  said 
to-night  may  be  the  means  of  bringing  us 
peace.  Who  knows?  Will  you  listen?" 

"  Of  course,  if  you  really  wish  it." 

"  I  do." 

He  sat  down  also  on  the  edge  of  the 
basin.  There  seemed  to  be  nothing  for 
me  to  say  so  I  waited  for  him  to  begin. 

"  It  all  seems  long  ago  now,  Miss 
Leigh.  My  grandfather  came  out  to  the 
States  from  England  when  Aunt  Val  was 
twelve  years  old.  With  him  came  also 
my  grandmother  and  my  mother  who  was 
a  baby  in  her  arms.  There  had  been 
three  sons  between  my  mother  and  Aunt 
Val  but  all  had  died  in  England.  My 
grandfather  settled  in  Baltimore,  but  his 
wife  did  not  survive  the  transplanting. 
She  died  within  the  year.  So  Aunt  Val 
was  the  only  mother  my  mother  ever  knew, 
as  well  as  the  only  mother  I  have  ever 
[262] 


Unofficial  g>Ecretarp 


known  myself.  And  no  man  could  have 
had  a  more  devoted  mother  than  she  has 
been  to  me  —  God  bless  her  !  " 

He  paused  a  little  but  I  still  was  silent. 
It  was  npt  for  me  to  speak. 

"  Well,  things  ran  along  evenly  for  a 
good  many  years.  Aunt  Val's  youth  was 
sacrificed  to  the  making  of  a  home  for 
her  father  and  sister,  but  at  last  my  grand 
father  died,  and  afterward  Aunt  Val  met 
and  loved  a  man  and  was  to  have  been 
married  to  him.  She  was  twenty-nine 
then.  He  was  thirty-two.  Everything 
was  in  readiness,  and  a  day  or  two  before 
the  wedding,  my  mother,  then  a  girl  of 
eighteen,  came  home  from  school. 

"  From  here  on  it  's  an  ugly  story,  Miss 
Leigh,  and  a  sad  one.  Aunt  Val  suspected 
nothing,  but  when  the  day  for  the  wed 
ding  came,  neither  her  lover  nor  her  sis 
ter  were  to  be  found.  She  was  alone  with 
her  grief.  She  shut  herself  up  in  her  lit 
tle  house  and  fought  it  out  by  herself. 

"  A  year  went  by.  One  night  after  she 
[263] 


<Ef)c  ^Inofficial  ^>ccrctarj> 

had  retired  she  heard  a  knocking  at  the 
door  and  asked  who  was  there.  A  weak 
but  familiar  voice  answered, 

11 '  It  is  I,  Val,—  Janet.' 

"  She  threw  open  the  door  and  there 
stood  my  mother,  the  wreck  of  her  beau 
tiful,  girlish  self,  with  me  in  her  arms  — 
a  four-weeks-old  baby. 

"  '  Val,'  she  said,  '  I  Ve  come  all  the 
way  to  give  you  this  — '  and  she  laid  me  in 
her  arms." 

He  rubbed  his  forehead  wearily  as 
though  his  head  ached,  and  there  was  an 
other  long  silence.  Then  he  continued: 

"  I  have  tried  since  I  came  here  not  to 
think  about  it  any  more,  but  to-night  it 
all  seems  very  real  again.  Aunt  Val  got 
my  mother  to  bed  and  begged  her  to  rest 
and  be  quiet.  She,  realizing  perhaps  that 
her  hours  were  few,  wanted  to  talk.  She 
wore  no  wedding  ring  and  seeing  that 
Aunt  Val  observed  it  she  said: 

"  '  We  were  married,  Val, —  truly  we 
were  —  at  a  little  English  Church  —  in. 
[264] 


(Unofficial  g>rcrctarp 


Maryland  —   Choptank  —  '  Aunt     Val 
turned  to  look  at  her,  but  she  was  dead." 

That  little  English  Church  in  Chop- 
tank  Parish,  Miladi  !  Don't  you  remem 
ber  it  well?  It  could  have  been  no  other, 
I  am  sure.  We  Ve  been  there  to  church 
many  a  time,  you  and  I.  Dr.  Thorne 
went  on  with  his  story. 

'  The  name  of  that  place  escaped  her 
memory,  Miss  Leigh.  For  thirty-five 
years  she  tried  in  vain  to  recall  it.  Aunt 
Val  had  a  small  fortune  which  was  all  her 
own.  She  spent  almost  every  dollar  of 
it  trying  to  find  out,  until  at  last  I  begged 
her  to  forget  it  and  be  content  with  life 
as  it  is. 

"  Of  course  during  my  childhood  I 
knew  nothing  of  all  this.  Occasionally 
one  of  the  boys  would  say  something  I 
could  n't  understand,  but  when  I  asked 
Aunt  Val  she  made  always  the  same  re 
ply.  '  Your  mother  died  when  you  were 
born,  my  dear.  Are  you  not  my  son?  Am 
I  not  your  mother?  '  And  I  was  satisfied. 
[265] 


*Tf)c  Unofficial  j£>ccretarp 

'  When  I  was  ready  I  went  to  Har 
vard.  Then  I  studied  medicine  at  Rush 
Medical  College  in  Chicago  and  had  a 
year  at  Johns  Hopkins  afterward.  It  was 
here  that  the  blow  fell.  The  year  was 
just  over.  We  had  passed  all  our  exam 
inations  and  one  day  a  lot  of  the  fellows 
were  standing  in  the  lecture-room  talking 
over  the  examinations  and  congratulating 
those  who  had  made  the  honors,  of  whom 
I  chanced  to  be  one.  Among  them  was 
a  man  who  had  been  at  Rush  when  I  was 
there  and  who  had  come  also  to  Johns 
Hopkins.  I  never  liked  him.  He  was  n't 
the  right  sort,  you  know,  and  once  or 
twice  I  had  had  the  luck  to  pluck  some 
thing  he  was  after.  Consequently  he 
did  n't  like  me  either,  though  we  had 
been  outwardly  friendly.  He  was  going 
to  marry  a  Baltimore  girl  with  whom  I 
used  to  play  when  I  was  a  child,  so  I  had 
tried  to  be  decent  to  him.  Well,  every 
body  was  in  fine,  good  humor  that  day  ex 
cept  him.  Suddenly  I  felt  as  though  the 
[266] 


Unofficial  g>ecretarp 


earth  was  crumbling  beneath  my  feet,  for 
he  was  saying, 

'"Oh,  it's  all  right,  Thorne.  You 
may  carry  things  with  a  high  hand  while 
you  're  in  college,  but  if  you  're  thinking 
about  practicing  in  Baltimore,  take  my  ad 
vice.  Don't.' 

"  Dead  silence  fell.  I  can  see  the  fel 
lows  yet,  closing  in  around  me,  leaving 
him  standing  by  himself. 

"  '  Why  not?  '  I  asked.  *  I  don't  know 
that  I  shall  practice  in  Baltimore  but  I  can 
see  no  reason  why  I  should  not  if  I 
choose.' 

'  There  is  a  reason,'  he  sneered. 
'  Baltimore  society  will  close  its  doors  on 
one  whose  mother  saw  fit  to  disregard  the 
marriage  ceremony!  ' 

"  I  suppose  I  should  have  killed  him  if 
the  fellows  had  not  held  me  back  while 
two  of  them  pushed  him  out  at  the  door 
and  down  the  stairs.  Then  they  all  talked 
at  once,  assuring  me  that  they  knew  he 
was  lying  —  that  even  if  he  spoke  the 
[267] 


Unofficial 


truth,  what  difference  could  it  make  to 
them?  They  were  my  friends. 

"  I  flew  to  Aunt  Val  —  only  to  find  my 
worst  fears  realized.  My  mother  had 
told  her  before  she  died  that  she  was  mar 
ried.  She  believed  her.  She  did  not 
know!  She  had  even  told  her  where,  and 
she  had  tried  so  hard  to  remember  the 
name  of  that  place  but  could  not.  She 
had  spent  so  many  years  and  so  much 
money  trying  to  find  out.  Alas,  why  had 
she  not  told  me  herself!  She  had  not 
foreseen  what  might  happen  if  she  did  not  ! 

"  I  thought  I  was  going  mad,  Miss 
Leigh.  Something  pounded  within  me  till 
I  felt  as  though  my  brain  would  burst, 
but  at  sight  of  Aunt  Val's  distress,  I  grew 
calmer  and  tried  to  look  the  thing  in  the 
face. 

"  Unless  you  understand  the  English 
pride  of  race,  you  can  in  no  way  compre 
hend  what  it  all  meant  to  me,  Miss  Leigh. 
True,  I  was  born  and  brought  up  in  the 
States,  but  family  pride  is  like  original 
[268] 


Unofficial  &ecretarp 


sin  —  it  is  hard  to  eradicate.  All  my  life 
I  had  been  taught  that  through  all  the 
generations  behind  me  the  family  page 
had  been  kept  clean.  Now,  —  my  own 
mother!  " 

"  Surely  you  don't  believe  —  "  I  began. 

"  No.  I  don't,"  he  broke  in.  "  I,  too, 
have  faith  in  her,  but  /  don't  know.  You 
can  not  imagine  what  it  means  to  a  man 
like  me  to  bear  a  name  which  he  is  not 
sure  is  his  own  —  a  name  he  dare  not  of 
fer  to  a  woman  !  " 

Miladi,  I  have  shocked  you  a  good 
many  times  by  a  remark  such  as  I  am 
about  to  make  now.  Take  one  more 
shock,  will  you?  If  there  are  no  excep 
tions  to  the  statement  that  the  sins  of  the 
fathers  are  to  be  visited  on  the  children, 
just  write  me  down  a  heretic. 

"  After  a  while  I  thought  it  all  out  and 
one  night  I  said  to  Aunt  Val,  '  I  'm  going 
away.' 

"  '  Without  me?  '  she  asked. 

"  *  Not  if  you  '11  come  with  me,'  I  said. 
[269] 


Cfje  {Unofficial  £>ecretarp 

"  So  we  sold  the  home  in  Baltimore 
and  started  to  England,  but  as  we  crossed, 
we  met  on  the  boat  —  whom  do  you 
suppose? " 

"Captain  Starr?" 

"  Right.  He  was  then  on  a  boat  which 
sailed  from  Liverpool.  He  told  us  about 
this  beautiful  country,  of  its  possibilities 
for  all  young  men  and  for  one  of  my  pro 
fession  in  particular.  Instead  of  carrying 
out  our  original  intention  we  changed 
boats  at  Liverpool  and  came  here.  We 
were  thirty-five  days  at  sea.  We  have 
lived  our  own  lives  here.  I  have  been 
busy,  I  might  say  content,  until — " 

He  rose  and  stood  looking  down  into 
the  water  of  the  fountain.  I  rose  also 
and  said, 

"Until  what?" 

"  Until  you  came,"  he  said,  brokenly. 
"  All  has  been  different  since  then.  The 
skeleton  will  not  stay  in  the  closet.  At 
night  the  ghost  walks.  Now, —  I  must 
know.  I  shall  do  what  I  can  to  end  Aunt 
[270] 


Unofficial  &>ecretar|> 


Val's      long      martyrdom  —  and      mine. 
Meanwhile  —  " 

He  took  my  hands  in  his  own  and  lifted 
them  to  his  lips  but  said  no  more.  We 
went  back  to  the  hotel  and  I  did  not  see 
him  again  while  I  was  in  Buenos  Aires. 
But  before  I  went  to  sleep  that  night  I 
wrote  again  to  Mr.  Holden.  I  asked 
him  to  go  personally  over  to  the  little 
church  in  Choptank  Parish  and  look  up 
the  record  for  1874  and  if  he  found  this 
marriage  recorded  there  to  send  a  copy  of 
the  parish  register  to  Dr.  Thorne. 

The  next  day  we  took  the  boat  and 
came  back  to  Asuncion.  There  was  work 
in  plenty  awaiting  us,  thank  Heaven!  But 
Miladi,  I  am  the  mooniest  creature  in  all 
South  America.  I  can  settle  down  to 
nothing.  I  seem  to  be  on  edge,  waiting, 
watching,,  listening  for  —  something  (I 
wonder  what)  tormented  with  doubts  and 
fears.  Oh,  what  if  he  should  not  find  it, 
Miladi  !  It  would  be  worse  than  death  — 
la  morte  dans  I'ame  —  for  us  both. 
[271] 


Unofficial  £5>ccretarj> 


In  my  Garden,  BUENOS  AIRES,  S.  A. 

T_JT  AS  there  never  been  a  moment  in  your 
life,  Miladi,  when  you  have  said  to 
yourself,  "  It  was  for  this  I  have  waited: 
it  was  of  this  I  have  dreamed?"  Well, 
they  say  that  all  things  come  to  him  who 
waits,  and  sometimes  —  one's  dreams 
come  true. 

I  have  seen  it  myself,  Miladi,  —  that 
little  piece  of  paper  which  meant  so  much 
to  three  people,  to  Aunt  Val,  to  Dr. 
Thorne,  to  me.  This  is  what  it  said  : 

Married,  June  loth,  1874,  by  the  Reverend 
William  White,  Rector  of  Choptank  Parish, 
Maryland,  Janet,  daughter  of  the  late  Alan  Rex- 
ford  of  Baltimore,  to  Burton  Thorne,  M.D.,  of 
Albany,  New  York. 

"  Donald  McLean,  Curate, 


_... 

«  T^U  TJ          c  c  Witnesses. 

Thomas  Hayes,  bexton.      J 

It  was  such  a  long  time  coming.  Mr. 
Holden  was  away  from  Washington  when 
my  letter  arrived.  I  heard  nothing  from 
him  or  from  Dr.  Thorne,  but  I  knew 
that  down  in  Buenos  Aires  he  was  fighting 
[272] 


^inofficial 


the  fight.  I  had  almost  persuaded  myself 
that  we  had  heard  nothing  because  there 
was  nothing  to  hear,  yet  I  could  not  help 
feeling  that  even  if  Mr.  Holden  had  been 
unsuccessful  he  would  make  known  the 
fact  to  me. 

One  morning  I  found  on  my  desk  a 
letter  from  Buenos  Aires.  I  tore  it  open 
and  then  sat  staring  at  it.  There  was  not 
a  word  about  the  thing  uppermost  in  my 
mind.  It  was  merely  a  line  reminding  me 
of  a  promise  I  had  made  before  we  went 
on  our  vacation.  The  opera  season  was 
about  to  begin.  He  hoped  I  had  not  for 
gotten  that  I  was  to  give  him  the  pleasure 
of  hearing  the  music  with  him. 

The  Consul  looked  up  and  said, 

"  Hear  from  Thorne,  Virginia  ? 
How's  the  hospital?" 

"I  —  why  —  "  I  stammered,  "  he 
has  n't  mentioned  it." 

Mr.  Holt  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and 
roared.  Then  he  came  across,  still  laugh 
ing,  and  said, 

[273] 


Unofficial  &ecretarp 


"Might  I  ask  —  without  impertinence, 
you  know  —  what  he  did  mention?  When 
Thome  forgets  to  talk  about  the  hospi 
tal  —  " 

"  It  is  only  an  invitation  to  come  down 
to  the  opera,  but  —  I  think  I  won't." 

"Why?" 

"  Oh,  there  's  a  lot  to  do  here  —  " 

He  closed  the  door  which  connects  his 
own  with  the  outer  office.  Then  he  came 
back  and  stood  beside  me  again. 

"  Things  have  n't  been  going  just  right 
for  you  lately,  have  they,  little  girl?  "  he 
said. 

"Do  things  ever  go  just  right?"  I 
replied. 

"  Sometimes  they  do.  Listen,  Virginia. 
You  know  how  glad  Mrs.  Holt  and  I 
were  to  have  you  come  to  us.  Nothing 
can  ever  take  away  the  grief  that  touched 
us  a  few  years  ago  when  we  lost  all  that 
was  our  own,  but  the  sting  has  been  less 
sharp  since  you  came.  And  we  should 
have  been  glad  to  have  you  just  come  and 
[274] 


Unofficial  ^>ecretarj> 


be  one  of  us  —  to  do  for  you  what  your 
father  and  mother  would  gladly  have 
done  for  our  daughter  had  the  case  been 
reversed.  But  you  yourself  did  not  wish 
that  and  I  liked  your  spirit.  Besides,  I 
thought  you  would  be  happier  if  you  were 
busy.  Was  I  right?  " 

"  Of  course,  —  quite  right." 
'  Well,  what  I  am  trying  to  say  now 
is  that  you  must  not  feel  riveted  to  the 
job.  You  have  been  of  great  help  to  me 
on  account  of  your  peculiar  fitness  for  the 
work  to  be  done,  but  I  will  manage  things. 
Run  along  and  hear  the  music.  It  will  do 
you  good.  Besides  —  " 

"What?" 

"  —  there's  going  to  be  war  in  Para 
guay." 

"  I  was  afraid  —  is  it  really  true?  " 

'  Yes.  It  's  coming  just  as  surely  as  that 

the  earth  moves.     Already  Paraguay  has 

been   notified  by  Argentina,    Brazil,   and 

Uruguay  that  they  will  not  see  Asuncion 

destroyed.      But    you    know    the    unrest 

[275] 


Unofficial 


here.  I  am  glad  to  have  you  go  down  to 
Buenos  Aires  for  a  while." 

"But  —  Mrs.  Holt?"  I  asked. 

He  paused  and  his  voice  grew  soft  as 
he  answered, 

"  She  knows.  We  have  talked  it  all 
over.  She  will  not  be  persuaded  to  leave 
me.  She  will  stay." 

I  took  the  train  next  morning  and  my 
heart'  was  heavy  as  I  looked  out  over  the 
smiling  land.  Poor  little  Paraguay  !  God 
help  her  if  the  experience  of  '65~'7O  is  to 
be  repeated! 

The  very  day  I  arrived  in  Buenos  Aires 
Mr.  Holden's  letter  came  also.  It  beat 
me  by  a  few  hours,  but  I  might  say  with 
the  Irishman  that  we  arrived  "  simulta 
neously  and  all  at  wance  !  "  The  train  was 
late,  as  usual.  There  was  little  more  than 
an  hour  in  which  to  get  dressed,  have  din 
ner,  and  get  to  the  opera.  When  I 
emerged  from  the  little  room  to  which 
Aunt  Val,  in  a  state  of  subdued  excite 
ment,  had  shown  me,  Dr.  Thorne  was 
[276] 


{Unofficial 


standing  by  the  fire-place.  All  of  a  sud 
den  something  happened.  I  found  myself 
so  close  in  some  one's  arms  that  I  could 
scarcely  breathe,  and  a  voice  —  dearest 
voice  in  the  world,  Miladi  !  —  was  saying 
things  in  my  ear.  I  might  have  tried  to 
escape  but  I  knew  it  would  n't  be  worth 
while.  Had  n't  he  told  me  that  he  played 
tackle  on  the  football  team  all  the  time 
he  was  in  college?  Besides,  —  it  was  such 
a  good  place  to  be.  Moreover,  I  knew 
very  well  that  I  should  not  be  there  had 
not  all  been  well  with  him. 

We  flew  to  the  opera.  Caruso  was  at 
his  best.  The  great  Sextette  from 
"  Lucia  "  as  I  heard  it  that  night  will 
ring  in  my  ears  forever. 

When  I  saw  Dr.  Thorne  again  in  the 
morning  he  said, 

"  I  shall  have  to  go  away  for  an  hour. 
When  I  come  back  will  you  go  somewhere 
with  me?  " 

"Anywhere  —  with  you,"  I  answered. 

I  did  not  realize  how  fatal  a  promise 
[277] 


Unofficial 


I  was  making,  Miladi,  but  may  I  take  with 
me  to  the  next  world  the  remembrance  of 
what  came  into  his  face!  Aunt  Val  went 
with  us.  Over  on  the  other  side  of  town 
is  another  little  English  Church,  and  we 
were  married  there  yesterday  morning. 

I  had  a  chance  the  very  first  day  to  put 
into  practice  some  of  my  beautiful  theories 
about  being  a  doctor's  wife,  Miladi. 
When  we  returned  from  the  church  the 
telephone  was  ringing  away  like  mad.  He 
hurried  away  and,  will  you  believe  it?  — 
I  saw  my  lord  and  master  no  more  till 
nine  o'clock  last  night.  After  dinner 
Aunt  Val  asked  to  be  excused,  said  she 
hoped  I  would  not  find  it  lonely,  and  went 
to  her  room.  I  went  into  the  garden. 
Again  I  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  basin 
and  thought  of  the  many  things  that  had 
happened  since  that  other  night  so  many 
weeks  ago. 

I  heard  a  door  open  and  close  again 
quickly  and  in  a  moment  more  he  came 
running  down  the  steps.  I  was  in  his  arms 
[278] 


Unofficial  ^>ccrctnrj> 


inside  of  two  seconds  and  he  was  saying, 

"  Has  it  been  a  long  day?  " 

"Centuries!"  I  asserted  dramatically. 

He  laughed  like  a  school-boy.  It  was 
good  to  hear  him,  Miladi.  The  years 
seem  to  have  fallen  from  him  in  a  day.  He 
has  grown  youthful  again. 

"  What  have  you  been  doing  all  day?  " 
he  asked. 

"  Well,  first  I  wired  the  Consul.  Re 
signed  my  position.  Told  him  I  had  ac 
cepted  a  better  one." 

"  Did  you  tell  him  what  it  was?  " 

«  N  —  no,  but  —  " 

"What?" 

"  I  signed  my  name  —  as  is.  That 
ought  to  help  some." 

"What  else?" 

"  Nothing  much  —  just  thinking.  This 
garden  is  a  good  place  in  which  to  think 
thoughts  and  to  dream  dreams." 

"  May  your  dreams  be  happy,  Dear 
est,"  he  said,  "  —  not  like  mine  when  first 
I  came.  What  have  I  not  suffered  in  this 
[279] 


^Unofficial  ^>ecretarp 


garden  !  Why,  I  used  to  call  it  —  Geth- 
semane  !  " 

"Oh,"  I  cried,  "—but  never  again!  " 

"  No.  Never  again.  I  looked  about 
me  here  and  you  know  what  I  found. 
My  own  troubles  seemed  small  in  com 
parison  and  I  gave  myself  no  time  to  think 
about  them.  I  got  things  started  at  the 
hospital  —  " 

"  Our  hospital  —  "  I  thought. 

"  —  and  after  that,  how  could  I  think 
of  anything  else?  Sometimes  people 
think  me  over-enthusiastic  about  the  hos 
pital,  but  see,  Beloved,  I  did  not  know 
then,  and  I  thought  always  of  my  poor 
young  mother  —  just  a  girl  like  them,  and 
perhaps  betrayed,  like  them  —  " 

"Don't!" 

"  Oh,  it  was  horrible.  The  thought 
was  maddening,  but  —  it  made  all  women 
sacred  to  me.  Now  I  have  you,  Dearest, 
you  will  help,  won't  you?  " 

I  could  n't  speak,  Miladi.  Something 
came  into  my  throat  and  kept  back  the 
[280] 


Unofficial  &ecretarp 


words,  but  surely,  in  the  silence  which  fol 
lowed,  the  Angel  recorded  the  answer  in 
the  Book. 

We  lingered  a  moment  longer  by  the 
fountain.  All  around  us  was  the  splen 
dor  of  the  night.  It  was  like  the  first 
movement  of  Beethoven's  "  Moonlight 
Sonata  "  with  illustrations  such  as  Nature 
alone  can  give.  The  moon  had  turned  all 
the  garden's  green  to  silver.  The  night 
winds  whispered  to  the  trees.  The  tall 
ferns  swayed  in  the  breeze  and  wooed 
and  kissed  each  other.  The  waters  of  the 
fountain  rippled  and  laughed  and  sang 
love  songs  to  the  flowers.  The  voice  of 
the  man  I  love  was  in  my  ears.  My 
dreams  have  all  come  true. 

Adios,  Miladi  dear.  Adios.  It  's  a 
glorious  old  world  after  all! 


MAR         1988 


DATE  DUE 


H1GHSMITH   48-  102 


PRINTED   IN   U.S.A. 


PS3535  I3U6  1912 

Mann,  Mary  Ridpath,  1867- 

The  unofficial  secretary 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


AA    001  250  609  3 


UNIVERSITY  OF  C 

II  Illl 


RIVERSIDE  LIBRARY 


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